


an act of kindness

by Khismer



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Inappropriate touching, M/M, Other, and content warning for uh kidnapping, and mention of drugging, and saeran's creepy ass, eventual spoilers for everything, no pronouns for reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 98,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8041423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khismer/pseuds/Khismer
Summary: “I’ll be nice,” he’d said, and isn’t that funny. That’s the only reason you came, isn’t it? You were just… trying to do something nice.If this is the thanks you get for trying to do a good deed, then never again.(an unknown route fic)





	1. on the bright side, it's hard to imagine how you could have a worse day after this

You hadn’t even known he was there.

Well – that was the intention, you suppose. If you’d felt like you were being _watched_ on top of all the other strangeness inherent in the situation, you might have just turned tail and went right back into the elevator without even trying to find the apartment.

You certainly wouldn’t have stood in front of the door like a fool, so absorbed in typing up lie after lie that you didn’t notice him creeping up behind you. You just – you thought maybe, if it seemed like you had gotten lost, made it to the wrong apartment or _something_ , he’d stop pressing the issue and just give the phone to the police to figure it out.

_“That’s strange. I see with my own eyes that… you are standing in front of a password door lock. Are you gonna continue lying?”_

You’d swear, for a second, your heart stopped, and you typed out a response with shaking hands.

_“Can you see me??”_

You didn’t anticipate being called out on the lie, so how could you possibly think, as you stared on in shock at those words on your screen, that a hand would close on your wrist and shake you from your confusion.

“You’ll have to come with me,” he’d said simply. He spoke as if through a synthesizer, slightly muffled by the half-mask he wore, and you flinched back at the sound.

“I’ll be good to you,” he’d said, softly, gently, as if trying to coax you to listen, his hand reaching for you, the corners of his eyes crinkling in what you _presume_ was a smile under that mask. Even with the interference, it seemed as though his voice remained even, though your heart stuttered in fear. He slipped your phone from your frozen fingers with ease, dropping it into a jacket pocket.

Your words stuck in your throat, and you tried to tug your wrist from his grasp. “Nnnn…” His grip merely tightened. “I’ll be nice,” he’d said, and he’d tightened his hold on your wrist and pulled you along with him.

And isn’t that funny. That’s the only reason you came, isn’t it? You were just… trying to do something nice.

Something about him – the look in his eye, maybe, or the tightness of his grip, or the knowledge that he’d already been _watching_ you, that he’d led _you_ here – whatever it was, it gave you a sense of _danger_ , of _urgency_ , gummed up your limbs, made it feel like no matter what you did or where you tried to run, it wouldn’t work, wouldn’t be enough.

Isn’t – isn’t adrenaline or something supposed to push through that and make you react faster? You just felt numbed, like everything was moving too fast around you, scenery whizzing past too fast to take in even _before_ he tugged you along to the car.

You wish you could say you struggled, tried to break away, but the most you did was tug uselessly at the handle when he pushed you in. It didn’t work. Geez, where do you even get a car that won’t let you manually unlock the doors?

And the movement caught his eye, besides, so you ducked your head and tried to keep your gaze away from him.

He’d pulled the car to a stop after – an hour? Two? Three? Or less than that, maybe only minutes after setting out? Well. It was some time after the scenery had faded into unfamiliarity, anyway; could you really be blamed for having a loose grasp of what was happening?

Your eyes darted to the window as you slowed even though you knew your have to – to – kick it out, or _something_ ,

“Don’t run,” he’d said. “I’d have to find you again.”

And what an effective deterrent _that_ implication made.

He rummaged in the middle compartment until he pulled from it a scrap of fabric, and then he turned his attention to you again.

“Here. Lean in.”

You blinked. “Wwwwwhy.”

He tilted his head, and you remembered. Ah yes. Kidnapping. Probably best to listen, then.

You leaned closer in mechanical little bursts, glancing up each time to gauge whether this was close enough, or if this was, or maybe this, until he stretched out his hands towards you. You should get a medal for not jerking away.

“Don’t worry,” he’d said, tying this makeshift blindfold with deft hands, “don’t worry.” As if it was that easy.

He gave it a light tug to test if it was hold, apparently satisfied with what he found, as he let it be.

“What if I take it off?” you asked. After all, you still have free use of your hands.

“You won’t.” The car begins to move again.

You have to fight the urge to tug the blindfold down defiantly, restricting yourself to reaching up and brushing the fabric with your fingers. Maybe you should _not_ follow the self-destructive impulses that could get you killed.

You slipped your hands beneath your thighs. Maybe sitting on them would make it harder to act on that impulse, so you stayed like that, still and quiet, until you couldn’t stand it anymore. If anything, the effort only heightened the urge to do something, so: “Where are we going?” you asked at last.

“To paradise,” he said, and _sorry, **what**?_

He spoke up again, which saved you the struggle of figuring out what in the world you were meant to say to that. “You’ll be safe there, there’ll be no more pain.”

“Oh,” you managed to say, and then fell silent. A religious nut, great. As if this experience wasn’t bad enough without that terrifying new element.

So, then, _he_ at least thinks that you’ll be staying. Or… maybe he just wants you to think that he thinks that.

…There’s a lot more variables to a kidnapping than you’d thought.

You’re pleasantly surprised to not be blindfolded now, though. You would have thought that you’d be – well. Locked up before you were given your sight back.

Instead, however, he’s allowed you to see as he led you through… wherever this is, all the way to this room.

And now – well.

Your nails press little half-moons into your palm as you strain to keep yourself still, eyes wide as you struggle to take it all in.

You don’t know where you are, or what’s going to happen to you, or _why_ , and if this is the thanks you get for trying to do a good deed, then _never again_.

Your mysterious captor – you _‘don’t need to know who he is,’_ apparently – is speaking to a woman who sits, regal, on what looks to be a _throne._

Her hair floats around her, golden and glowing, and her hands rest elegantly on her knee. She looks delicate, in a way, but even from here, the look in her eyes is… well. It’s enough to make you monitor your breathing, make you still yourself as much as you possibly can, hoping to avoid those eyes turning to you again.

Does she stay there all day, or is it just for the benefit of visitors? Either way, she must have the patience of a saint. She certainly dresses like one.

You wish you were close enough to hear them. You’re not going to move closer, though, not for anything, and you’re not sure you could really process what you might hear, anyway.

You can guess the tone, if not the exact words. And you know it’s about _you_.  

Well – partially, anyway, maybe he stopped to pick up groceries before dragging you with him and he’s complaining about the rising prices of eggs, shit, you don’t know. But you saw the way her eyes snapped to you, saw them narrow as she looked you up and down. Your presence is, at the least, unexpected, and could very well be _unwanted_ , too.

It’s obvious she’s in charge. You can only hope that he has enough sway with you to keep his earlier promise of safety.

You _really_ wish you could hear what they were saying, if only so you knew whether something worse was coming sooner rather than later.

Thankfully for your fraying nerves, he soon ducks his head, almost like a bow, and turns away.

That’s… it? They’re done?

He’s pulled his mask off, and the expression on his face is reminiscent of a faint smile, though he manages to make even _this_ creepy as hell.

He walks a few steps beyond you, then pauses and turns back.

“Well?” he says.

Oh – shit, alright, you’ve been dismissed, great. You seem to have taken too long to process this – _again_ – as he now holds out a hand expectantly, palm up. You scurry over to his side, but he keeps the hand extended. _Great_ , of course you have to be led away again. You allow him to take hold of your hand.

No lacing fingers, though, you resolve quietly. Kidnapped you may be, but you’ll wait to put out, thanks.

You trot along after him as he leaves and try to see if you can glean any information about your fate from the way he’s carrying himself right now.

He doesn’t seem to even look at any of the people you pass, people who turn to stare at you. Does that mean he’s heading to something urgent? Does he just not like them?

This isn’t working. Anything you think you can learn is _probably_ just paranoia. “So,” you say in lieu of more painful theorizing. You keep your voice quiet enough that you hope he’ll hear it without it attracting the attention of anyone else. “Tell the truth. Am I a keeper?”

You can't quite tell, but you think you catch the faintest hint of a smirk on his face as he leads you away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "kelsey did you pick this title because of the new bastille song?" YOU BET YOUR BUNS I DID, thanks maddy for reccing it, it really is perfect  
> also the rating may indeed change, because As You Know, I tend to write sin, but this'll do for now.


	2. siri, google 'how to file a harassment claim when your boss is in a cult'

Christ, look at all these screens. Is he some kind of voyeur?

It's a pretty impressive set-up, but you can't imagine he uses it for anything benign as movie night. 

There's no windows, and the lights above -- fluorescent? -- are dim. Most of the light in the room, then, comes from the monitors, leaving everything awash in a murky blue-green.

No wonder he’s so pale. This is some next-level basement dwelling. 

He’s moved immediately to the monitors after closing the door, though you remain hovering by the doorway. 

“This is…”

“Where I work,” he replies, still standing as he picks at the keyboard. That's sufficiently vague. 

The monitors, previously idle, running empty, blink to life. Well, some of them, anyway. Some still just glow blankly. 

“Uh-huh. So…”

"You'll work here too.”

“Right.” Of course. 

He finishes… whatever he was doing with a decisive-looking flourish, and plunks himself down in the chair pushed just slightly off to the side. 

He regards you for a second, long enough for you to start shifting nervously under his gaze, and then he turns up a hand, offering it palm up. “Come here.”

There’s a thrum of nervousness that runs through you at this request -- well. Not a request. That's the problem. 

You take a hesitant step forward. “So, ah… A question.” Another tiny step forward. “Can I leave?”

“No.”

Which: of course not, but you need your opening. “No, wait, wait, you didn't let me finish.” You wait until the pause seems suitably drawn-out, then ask, “Can I leave… this town?” Which is wild speculation that you're even in one right now.

He tilts his head, his eyes squinting a little, but his expression remaining otherwise impassive. “No.”

“See? Clarification! Good to know!” You take another step toward him, slightly less nervous, angling your head as if in innocent curiosity. “So… can I leave this building?”

“No.”

“Can I… leave this room?” Another step.

He narrows his eyes further. “...no.”

You’re near enough that you can plunk yourself right down on the desk, so that's what you do, pressing your hand over your chest and feigning surprise. “No? No leaving at  _ all _ _? _ \--ah, wait.” You raise a finger. “What about--”

He must know you plan to continue this into minutiae, as he takes this as a cue to wrap a hand around your wrist and pull.

You weren't expecting anything of the sort and so you topple, sprawling uncomfortably onto him in his chair.

You knock your forehead against his shoulder in the process, and though it hardly hurts, you still scowl as you reach up to run at the point of impact. “Leaving… your sight,” you finish lamely. You wiggle into a better position, drawn up taller, and no longer semi-straddling him. “I’ll take it that’s a _‘no’_ there too, huh?”

He hums, and resumes typing, lacing his arms under yours to reach the keyboard.

Contrary dick. He’s lucky you didn’t knee him in the crotch as you fell, too, though it would have served him right. 

You frown into his jacket, staring resolutely ahead, until it becomes clear that he isn't moving any time soon, and it’s boring just staring at the wall. Maybe the monitors would be more interesting.  You wriggle again, twisting to face the screens, and nudge at him until you're sitting, squished, side-by-side.

He has the audacity to let you settle in this new position before he pulls you so you're seated more fully on his lap. Great, so  _ that's  _ how this is going to work. 

You huff, but it’s not like you can do much to protest, so you try to ignore him as best you can and instead stare at the monitors, trying to take it all in. Some are idle, blank; some display static numbers, while others scroll through a stuttering, quickly-changing set of numbers. There’s a few that look like security feeds, each varying in camera quality. Is that one showing the apartment?

It seems to be. The camera doesn't give you the most direct view of the door he'd directed you to, but you're pretty sure that's it. 

You glance back, and he's looking at another monitor, a string of letters and numbers that he watches shift. 

After a moment, the monitor with the apartment flickers to a neutral screen. 

“He hasn’t noticed yet.”

“That's… good,” you say, though you don't know who ‘he’ is. Your -- captor, new boss, whatever -- seems pleased by this observation, and you're not above sucking up. 

He makes a soft noise of agreement. “So,” he says, and from the movement in your peripheral you think he’s glancing at you, “you can stay, and no one will try to take you away.”

Oh, fan _ tastic _ .  Was this mysterious ‘he’ someone who could have helped? 

Your equally-mysterious captor doesn't say anything to elaborate, though, and your curiosity begins to pick at you. 

“...How do you know?”

“CCTV feed,” he says. “No one’s interfered with it but me, not for a long time.”

“Oh,” you say. “I guess that'd do it.” Another pause. “How, exactly, do you know?”

There's a moment before he answers, hands stilling. “...curious.”

Shit, does he not like that? When you try to play it off, your laugh comes out nervous, stilted. “Thaaaaat’s me, alright, Iiiii’m… curious…” And you need to learn to shut up, too. 

But after one more painful silent second, he says, “his style is distinctive. I would know.”

“Oh,” you say, and will yourself to say nothing else. 

He continues to type, and some of the screens shift, though they remain equally as indecipherable. You're not sure what he's checking now, but you'll be damned if you ask, and instead you stare at one of the corner-most monitors, watching it spit out new lines of numbers. If you wait it out, maybe he’ll tell you something new, or finish quicker and you can get up. 

You snap out of your disengaged state when he draws a hand away from the keyboard and starts picking at it one-handed. 

What--? Oh.

He places his hand on the top of your head and threads his fingers through the strands, skin cool enough that you jolt. 

O...kay, alright, great, are you a hand rest now? You open your mouth to ask -- well, you’re not sure  _ exactly  _ what you’d say, but something along the lines of confused questioning -- but then he starts making little circular motions with his fingers and begins moving down.

Your eyes widen at his touch; flutter as his nails scrape gently at your scalp; squeeze shut as he moves lower, trying to steel yourself. 

His fingers tangle in the baby hairs at your neck and tug lightly, and your body trembles with a slow-building shiver. 

It’s another moment before you can speak. 

“C-cold hands, huh?” you say. At your words he trails down, dips a little beneath the collar of your shirt. 

His fingers swirl along the bumps of your spine, one two three and then no lower, tracing spirals there -- trying, you think, to either unsettle you or steal your warmth, though it could be both -- then he traces back up again, languidly tugging on the shorter hairs he manages to catch by looping his fingers. There’s still a noticeable difference in temperature, but it’s lessened. 

“Ah, well. Not as cold now.” He hums a little, possibly pleased.

“S-ooort of a shame, though,” you remark as he rests his chin on your shoulder, stuttering as you feel his steady breathing. You continue, as if he’s waiting impatiently for your reply, “because, you know, ‘cold hands, warm heart?’” 

“Would you say that’s true of me?"

“Mmmh, well, I haven’t really known you long enough to say,” and you squeeze your eyes tighter as he motions with just a little more pressure, “...but when have proverbs ever lied?”

He drags his nails across your skin and you reach up to thread your fingers through his hair -- softer than you might have thought, for being so obviously bleached -- feeling a little hazy at the sensation.

It's -- nice, really. Heady.

But he's a creep, so you tighten your grip abruptly and give a fairly sharp tug.

He startles, freezing -- and, thankfully, stilling his hands. 

It still takes you a moment to collect yourself enough to say something, and you try to keep your voice light, “if you're pulling hair, I should get to pull hair too, huh? Fair’s fair.”

He’s still and quiet so long, it’s actually a relief when he huffs and rests his head on your shoulder again. It’s still too damn close, but at least you’re not facing punishment for it. Though, of course, instead of using his free hand to type normally, he instead just wraps one arm around your waist because  _ apparently  _ he corners the market on inappropriate touching. 

The entire top row of screens shifts to more security footage. One is the apartment as seen from earlier, one is a mystery, and the other… it takes you a moment to recognize, but you  _ think _ it’s another hallway on that same floor, though the camera’s angled differently. 

“Um,” you say, “...what’s this for?” If you make it out of here alright, you’ll scour advice forums for tips on how to  _ shut the hell up _ , but for the moment, it’s admirable that you’re able to keep from nervously babbling  _ every  _ minute. 

“Making sure I won’t be tracked.”

“Still?” 

“Yes.”

Huh. It’s like pulling teeth with him. 

“So… what will I be doing?”

“Assisting.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from snapping at him that _yes, genius, you_ ** _get_** _that_. Bad idea, though. You don’t _know_ what could happen if you mouth off too much at him, but you might only be able to make that slip-up once. “I… understand that. Is there anything in particular I’ll be assisting _with_?”

He regards you for a long moment, blinking slow and cat-like at you, and for a second you think you’re going to get an actual answer out of him. “Whatever I tell you to.”

You want to scream. “I see.”

If this is meant to be a litmus test for how the rest of your time here will be, it’s not looking good. Are you going to have to keep walking on eggshells this whole time? How long might that be?

Exhaustion sinks in all at once as you realize, perhaps for the first time, just how serious this is. 

“Can I…” You try to figure out how to say this, and end up twisting a little so you can look up at him. Easier to figure out if you’re saying something wrong when you can see his expression, at least in theory. “--if you don’t need me for the moment, could I… rest? Sleep.”

He says nothing, so you tack on, “Doesn’t have to be in a bed, I’ll take a pull-out -- or a normal couch, or a coat on the ground, or just a corner of the room! I’m  _ really _ not picky.” Just as long as he doesn’t think he’ll be joining you.

“Mmh…” What’s he gonna do if the answer is ‘no,’ just keep you sitting here until he’s done? But his arm loosens, and he draws back. “I have a bed.”

“ _ You _ have a bed,” you repeat.

He doesn’t bother saying anything else, just nudges you off and stands. “Here.”

He takes hold of your wrist once more, which seems _especially_ unnecessary when you realize that the bed he’s speaking of is in an _adjacent room_. 

It’s bare as hell, too. Forget assisting, he needs an interior decorator. But there _is_ a bed, and it _looks_ clean, so you can forgive the empty walls. 

He pauses, watching as you nervously settle onto the foot of the bed, and your mind races, trying to figure out what to do if he comes closer. 

God, at least give you a few minutes of peace. And he… leaves, shutting the door behind him. It’s the first time since getting here that you can start to relax, and you fall backwards onto the sheets. 

That’s one day down. How many more are left?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: 'I can see myself incorporating sin into this fic later but it'll probably be a while still before I bump the rating up'  
> me in the next chapter: 'well ,'


	3. saeran's day goes well for once; yours is a little less spectacular

It is, apparently, too much to ask to begin your day with even a few minutes of peace.

You wake in a haze of blissful ignorance. It does not, unfortunately, last long; you become aware of just how cold the room is by the chill against your bare shoulders, and though you wriggle deeper into the warmth provided by the blankets, the cold lingers and chases away sleep.

Still, though it is soon apparent that you won’t be able to slip back into sleep, trying is better than having to face reality – or your ‘new boss.’

As long as you stay in bed, you can remain warm and cozy and ignore the grey walls and dim lighting and cool air and – hang on.

There are fingers combing through your hair.

The last dregs of sleep leave as alarm courses through you. Oh, god, you felt that right.

You jerk away so fast you nearly careen off the side of the bed in your haste. Your limbs tangle in sheets. When you can manage it, you peer out, and yep, there he is; your odd-eyed captor, regarding you evenly.

“Finally,” he says. “You’ve slept enough.”

You blink blearily at him. “...how much?”

“Enough.”

Your fingers clench reflexively around the pillow. It would be... _bad_ to start whacking him with the pillow, right? Possibly very bad. God, it would be satisfying, though.

“Alright,” you say instead, “well. Thank you. For… making sure I don’t sleep too much. It’s very. Considerate of you.”  

He still watches you. What else is he expecting? “Do you… need something?”

He blinks at you, slow and cat-like. “Come out.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“No.”

You bite back the ready retort of _“why did you wake me up, then?”_ and instead rub at your eyes with the heel of your hand. Does he just mean he wants you to ‘help’ as he works on… whatever it is that takes up all those screens? ...wait, did he actually wake you up for company?

Apparently, this moment of contemplation is too long for him. He starts to lean over the bed, and you scramble back until you hit the edge. “Mmmm, no, hang on, haha, haaaang on, wait, wait—” You hold up your hands as if to ward him off. “Iiiii… have to get dressed first.”

His expression hardly even changes, just squints his eyes a little, tilts his head just a bit, and yet you feel intensely scrutinized. Right. Damn. You don’t have a change of clothes.

Still. “Really,” you say, “just – get out. So I can get dressed.”

No movement. “Get _ouuuuut_ ,” you groan, making shooing motions with your hands, and at last he straightens.

“...hurry up.”

He doesn’t even shut the door behind him, probably as a show of dominance or superiority or something. Dick.

Getting dressed really just involves rearranging the clothes you're already wearing and smoothing out wrinkles as slowly as you can to give yourself a moment alone.

Are you gonna get a wardrobe change at some point? On the one hand, hey, it’d be nice to have pajamas, and, well, anything clean. On the other, who would choose the clothes? Him? If that means ending up wearing his brand of thrift store chic or having to give him your measurements, _no_ thank you.

He doesn't even pretend not to be watching you as soon as he notices you leave the room, immediately angling towards you in an unspoken command to come close.

When you do, he, of course, reaches out and, casually as anything, tugs you into his lap. Of _course_.

His hand against your wrist is cold, like before. Maybe he'd be a little warmer if he bothered to wear his jacket right.

...are you meant to be his personal space heater? Did he catch you and lead you here because his circulation’s shit and he never seems to care enough to pull his sleeves up?

Although… people don’t _normally_ get handsy with space heaters.

You sigh at these thoughts as you lean back into him and peer up at the screens.

There's a few less scrolling through numbers today, more blank ones.

“...business as usual?” you ask.

“Mmh,” he says, and you hold in a sigh as you prepare yourself for another series of frustrating non-answers.

“Not for long,” he says. You perk up. That's barely an answer, but it's better than nothing.

“You’re almost done?” you ask. “What's next?”

“Mmmh.” He gives another noncommittal hum and looks between the monitors before continuing, “It's a surprise.”

Is that – a joke? Or... You glance back at him to try and read him. He meets your gaze for only a moment, and he's… _definitely_ not smiling, but something makes you think it _is_ a joke, or… his weird equivalent of one.

Well. That's no clearer. But hey, maybe when he finishes this and gets to that surprise, it’ll require less complete concentration and he can talk a little more. Maybe then you won’t have to carry _all_ these conversations yourself.

Though… how long it’ll take to finish this is unclear. He seems… less alert than before. You watch for a moment, noting how he picks at the keyboard in a way that’s… methodical, _maybe_ , but it really just seems slow. Possibly lethargic? You speak up. “You seem tired, boss man. Didn’t sleep well?”

“Didn’t sleep.”

“...for real?”

You twist to examine him, though it’s a little awkward with how little room you’ve got to maneuver. Hmmm. There’s dark circles there, alright, but you can’t really tell if they’re any more prominent than they were yesterday.

Finally, you ask, “are you just running on coffee? – did you eat?”

“Mnn.”

That’s not an answer, but he doesn’t add anything else when you frown at him. “Is… that a no?”

“Mmh.”

That’s _really_ not an answer; but that means it probably _is_ ‘no,’ then, right? “Well damn, what _are_ you running on?”

He doesn’t bother to answer that, eyes still fixed on the monitors. You lean in a little to catch his attention, a frown tugging down your lips.  

“Boss. I gotta eat.”

“After."

You hesitate. “You’re… still working on covering your tracks, yeah? And… checking… similar things?”

He hums a noise of agreement.

Yeah, no. He’s been at this for _hours_. He may think he’s almost done, but he’s either got a shitty sense of time or no concept of his own needs – he certainly doesn't seem to understand what _you_ need. Or maybe he just doesn't care.

“Well,” you say, “my first official act as your assistant is to make a change to your schedule. We’re penciling in a – a necessary break.”

He says nothing, but at least he's looking at you and not back at the screens. you still have his attention; you can still make your case.

“It doesn't take long, just show me where I can eat.” After a moment’s thought, you add, “and maybe show me where a bathroom is.” Important, need-to-know information that has somehow been left out of your orientation tour.

“Mmmh,” he says, “I’m almost done.”

You _really_ can’t trust that he is.

“Seriously,” you say, “I need to eat, and you…” You pause to peer harder at him, as if you'll come to some sort of conclusion by examining his expression. “... _might_ _?_ Also need to eat? Just… pause this for five minutes and take me to a kitchen, let me eat, I dunno, a sandwich.”

He makes a face.

“Or something else! Anything else! I’m not picky, _really_ , I’ll take anything.” Now would be a good time for your stomach to chime in and growl, but despite your hunger, it stays quiet, apparently cowed into silence by this place. When this does not seem to sway him, you try again. “ _Please_?” You're not above pleading, if you have to. “I’ve got to go, I can’t stay cooped up in here forever. _Close_ to it, maybe, but...” You trail off.

“I won't stop you.” He types something, as if he’s only half-interested in whatever you’re saying.

“...really?” You study his face for signs of truth. “I… don’t know where to go,” you say.

He makes a noise that’s… well, you think it’s _supposed_ to sound sympathetic. Maybe. “May as well just stay here, then.” Indifference. Or, no – he's pleased. You struggle to keep the scowl off your face. Like hell you'll let yourself be stopped by difficulty and his weird desire to have you near him.

As if you’d intended to follow up with this, you add, “—but I’ll go because it's important and I’ve really _got to_.” If you haven’t already managed to impress upon him the necessity of meeting these _basic_ needs, there’s no reason why this emphasis would do anything, so it may be said more for your benefit than his.

A pause. “If I go I might not be back for hours,” you add.

_There’s_ a flicker of interest.

“I don't know if you ate or what, but I sure didn't, and – even if I can’t sell you on the idea of breakfast, it's morning and I've just woken up and I'd at least like to be able to leave to find a bathroom. Please.” That last part is hastily tacked on. You don’t think this is an unreasonable request at all, but better not to sound demanding, right? You think, for a moment, he is considering your proposal, and then he nudges you a little as if to urge you to turn back to look at the screens. No, no, no, you aren't giving in that easy.

But words won’t work here, apparently, so you struggle to free yourself from his grip. It’s not particularly hard, though there is a fair bit of wiggling, ducking under an arm and pushing back the other as it reaches for your waist. You take a few small, shuffling steps back so it feels less like he can just pull you in again, and contemplate this for a moment. What’s it gonna take to coax him out of here?

If words won’t work, then maybe… you hesitate, then extend your hand.

He stares at you long enough that your start to get a little ache in your extended arm and you get a little self-conscious – are you supposed to keep your hand totally flat or is curled up a little better? No, don’t curl _that_ much – but you keep your hand out. You’ll relax it when you have a clear ‘yes’ or ‘no.’

And he gives you an answer. He hits something on the keyboard in quick succession, then rises and takes your hand.  Well, damn. All that jazz about actions speaking louder than words really works, huh? Or, well, that saying’s more about how to convey intentions, and this is more of an exercise on how to get results, but – whatever, make use of this.

You pull him along for a while, keeping your pace a little faster than your usual speed, in the hopes that once you’re far enough away from the room he’ll be more likely to want to get this over with than he is to go back **.**

You bank on him letting you know if you start going in the wrong direction, which _almost_ backfires because he lets you get a few feet past it before informing you that you’ve just passed a bathroom.

He – keeps hold of your hand for a moment, unwilling to let go, when you push against the door. Before you can say anything, though, he releases you and steps back, just barely.

Thankfully. You’re not even sure what you would have done to try and dissuade him if he hadn’t let go, because “I would rather piss my pants right here in the halls than have you follow me in” _might_ not go over well.

Staying in is – tempting. It’s just as bleak as every other room you’ve seen here, but at least you’re alone. He might just leave you, though.

When you come out, he takes hold of your hand once more, and leads you on.

“This place is so big,” you mutter, and the echoes take all the irritation out of it, make it seem small and lost. The effect grates on you, and your lips twist in a sort of defiance, your voice louder this time to compensate, “how do you get used to it?”

“Mmm…” You weren’t really expecting a response, so when he pauses to look back at you, you startle, at a momentary loss for why he’s watching you before remembering, right, sometimes he does lapse from silence.

“I’ll teach you,” he says, voice made quieter by the empty space around you.

He runs his thumb over your hand and you shiver, moving to pull back. He holds on still, though, following your movement and taking a step closer as if you had intended to tug him closer.

“And until you learn, I can always show you where to go.”

There’s a faint smirk at his lips, but he turns back and begins leading you again, so you don’t have long to dwell on this.

“Yeah,” you mutter, and then quieter still so he can’t hear, “I bet you will.” He didn’t even want to come with you this first time, does he really think you’ll forget about that and be grateful for this assurance, or does he just prioritize being creepy over honesty? Whatever.

The rest of the tour passes without further incident. He turns the corner and pulls you along through an unremarkable empty doorframe. _So_ unremarkable, in fact, that it takes you a moment to realize this is it.

It's – well, to say it's not what you expected would require you to have thought about it enough to have formed expectations.  

You guess you thought there would be more… substance?

Maybe… something like a cafeteria. Or a kitchen. _Food_ is universal enough that even weird cults can’t screw that up, right?

But this is… bleak.

It’s sort of big, sort of empty, and looks like it couldn't decide between ‘homey’ and ‘industrial.’ There's a table, in case you ever feel a need to grab a bite while surrounded by too-dim lighting and grey walls.

But there's a stove, and cupboards, and drawers, and a pantry, and that's _probably_ a fridge, of the walk-in variety if so, so what does it matter?

You start at the cupboards first. The maybe-fridge seems like a likely candidate, but… there's a padlock hanging off of it. And _yeah_ the padlock is unlocked right now, but you’ve seen horror movies, okay, freezing to death is not the way you wanna go out. So: cupboards.

There’s a variety of cans and bags and jars; dried goods comprise the majority of the ones you can see, with few exceptions tossed in throughout. It's… something you can work with. Maybe the pantry will be more viable?

But that's more of the same. Larger canisters, like something you’d find in a bunker, but with brightly-colored labels cheerfully announcing the contents: dried mango! Dried beans! Rice!

A lot of rice, actually. Do those need to be in cans? Do they not last as long in boxes?

It’s… not quite what you were hoping for.

Though, what did you think, there would be, cereal? What kind of cereal would you expect from a cult? And who in here is in charge of getting groceries? Do they buy in bulk or make a series of discreet trips?

In your peripheral, you see him shift, then move away. There’s a flicker of odd annoyance at that. If he can’t give you suggestions or guide you somehow, he can at least stick around for moral support, can’t he?

“Hey, come on boss, I’ll be done quicker if you help me out.” No response, and he moves further.

Fine, whatever. You'll do this yourself.

There’s more on the top shelves that you can’t quite see. Maybe there you'll find something? Worth a shot. You plant a foot on the lowest shelf gingerly, feeling for any give, and slowly, carefully, start to pull yourself up.

The shelf just beyond your eye level has more of the same – actually, this one is _all_ rice – so you climb little more.

Jackpot. Top shelf is loaded up with smaller portions, more perishable stuff. which seems like it might leave some of it to be forgotten and spoil quicker, but whatever, at least it's here.

You prod a loaf of bagged bread experimentally. Soft, and it doesn't _look_ moldy. You grab hold of it and hop down.

There's movement to your side, so you turn to ask him where you can find something to put on the bread and oh. Oh wow. You… did not see her come in.

The savior looks just as coldly radiant as she did the day before.

She carries herself gracefully, without seeming stiff and her faint smile, though taut, is serene. She looks beautifully, artfully poised, and it makes you acutely aware of your unbrushed hair, the rumpled clothes you slept in, and the fact that, judging from her slightly strained expression, she definitely, absolutely just watched you were climb up her pantry like some sort of imbecile. Wonderful.

“How are you getting along?”

You nod, suddenly mute, as if this is any sort of answer; with difficulty, you eek out a ‘fine.’

She nods as well, but purses her lips. What awful luck you've had lately.

“Well, I have something to discuss… but I can see that you're busy.” You flinch at the tone, sugary-sweet and yet absolute. “He can explain later.”

They draw back, out of earshot.

You stare after them, still startled and a little at a loss, and a moment later he glances over, catches your eye – and smirks. Jackass.

The scowl that was forming freezes in cold terror as the savior’s attention slides to you as well. It's an inner struggle to drag a semblance of a smile to your face up from the depths of your fear. Mercifully, you lose her interest quickly.

Perhaps because of being caught unaware **s,** you are now attentive enough to notice when someone new comes in. Two someones, in fact. You don't recognize either of them as those you passed in the hallway yesterday, but that might not mean anything.

As they near, you tense, but neither of them has the same crushingly intimidating aura as the savior does, so you are, at least, not overwhelmed with fear.

One gets right to work, brushing past you like you're not even there. The other trails along behind the first on slow footsteps, coming to pause uncomfortably near you.

“Um,” you say, for lack of anything better. “...hi?”

They blink slowly with glassy eyes, and their stare turns a degree closer to you, but still seems as though they’re looking fixed at some space above your head.

The empty space above you does not hold their gaze for long, and they are soon looking around again until they catch sight of something and their attention snaps to that –

To the woman. The savior.

Though they appeared like a ghost, there’s nothing so graceful in how they move; they teeter a little, plod over to her on tired feet and latch onto her arm.

Even from here, you can see her brow furrow at the touch, but then, only seconds later, you can see her features smooth out in the instant she turns her head to them.

You turn away in the hopes that you'll draw less notice.    

The other one who came in is rummaging through drawers. Hang on, did she just pull out a granola bar? _That’s_ certainly edible. In contrast to your hesitant searching, she knows right where to go. Damn, you should have started there.

She takes a handful, looks up, stares at you with tired eyes, then looks to the savior. You follow her gaze.

“Stop it,” she says.

“—what?” Your eyes dart back to her.

“Looking like that.”

Looking – appearing like that? Or… looking _at_ things like you are? You reach up to touch your face, and she scowls.

“No,” she says, “never mind. Just wait until _your_ initiation.”

“My – what?”

Her smile is thin as she shakes her head.

“No, wait,” you say, but she is no longer listening. She doesn’t even bother to wave you away as she makes her way out the door.

Real winners, the lot of them. You don’t understand anything.

You know what, fuck it, sandwiches take too long and everything here is kinda shit anyway and you're _done._ You shove the bread back in the bag – oh, no, wait, what if the savior sees and disapproves of how messy it is? Too late now – and toss it up to the top shelf.

What was the drawer she was rummaging in, was it his one? Ah, there you go. Granola bars and packaged nuts and breakfast bars and… whatever. You don't even look at the labels, just start filling your pockets indiscriminately. They've got to be edible, right? So you'll be fine.  

What is this one, with the wine-colored wrapper you saw her take? Cranberry and apricot? _And_? Is that necessary?

Still, you take a few out of spite.

You glance back from time to time, checking to see if the crinkling attracts attention.

The savior meets your eyes and you try to smile as if you're not going to shove something boasting how it “reduces constipation by 27 percent!!!” into every pocket on you as soon as she looks away.

You are _not_ leaving his room again unless you absolutely have to now, no way, so these are your emergency supplies now.

So: food! Taken care of! ...technically! God, you hope you can get out of here, this is just _sad_.

So… now what? _You_ dragged him here, but he seems completely absorbed in whatever he’s talking about with the savior. You stare in his direction, silently willing him to stop talking to her and come and get you because yeah, you want to get out of here, but no way are you getting closer than you need to.

You don’t know how long you stand there, making your attempt at telepathy, but at last, an opening; she turns around and steps closer to the other, and somehow you manage to unstick your feet and dart over to him.

Anything witty you might have said – well, any _attempt_ at wittiness, anyway – all dries up under the fear that she will notice you and –

What, strike you down? What exactly is it that you think she’ll do? It’s hard to say why she inspires such fear in you, except that you get the distinct feeling that crossing her would be very bad, very permanent, and you are _very_ aware that you are lacking a rulebook here.

So you tug at his sleeve and look down and mumble. “I wanna go back.” It’s quiet, and guiltily said, like you’re a child ruining his fun – and more importantly, _her_ fun – by trying to drag him away in the middle of Grown Up Time.

When you look back up at him, his eyes are burning through you. That’s… not a _nice_ smile he’s wearing.

He looks immensely satisfied, like he knows you’re uncomfortable, he _knows_ he’s your only way out and he’s glad, reveling in this.

Well. If it keeps him happy, and if keeping him happy means you can get out of dangerous situations, then so be it. It still chafes. ...You suppose you’re not really _playing_ the part of the good little captive right now if you’re too scared to act any other way, are you?

Still, he reaches for your hand, which you gladly give. Great, he gets you, you’re going to leave, no problem at all.

...why is his smile getting wider. Why is he turning back to her. Why is he – ohhh, no no _no._

“Savior,” he says simply, and she turns and her eyes slide to you. Your face immediately breaks into a wide, nervous grin even as you hunch and try to surreptitiously shuffle further behind him.

Her eyes are sharp and clear, head tilted in faint interest.

“We'll be going now,” he says, and you could scream. This is so unnecessary, so obviously for your _‘benefit.’_ “We’ll extend another invitation to paradise. Everything will be perfect.”

The savior nods, still listening to whatever the other person is murmuring in her ear.

And then finally, _finally_ , he leads you out. He's in... a markedly better mood this time around as he guides you back, and when he bids you to take your usual seat – god, you hope you can convince him to get another chair or something – the way he nuzzles your neck is… almost affectionate.

(Before you sit, however, you take out the bulk of your stolen goods so you can be comfortable. His eyebrows only raise a fraction, but you still feel judged.

“Listen,” you say as if you can possibly explain pulling a half dozen packets of trail mix directly from your back pockets, “I have _needs_.”)

You go to open a packet – honey granola, a week from expiration **–** then pause. “Can… I get off? I'll get crumbs on you.”

“Don't.”

“Don’t… get crumbs on you or don’t get down?” No response. “Because… you're not having me do assistant work, you could… wait till you need something, and in the meantime I could get down and eat and not get crumbs on you.”

He tightens his grip, noses your neck. You sigh.

“Alright, I get the message, I'm just saying. But. Really is there anything you want me to do? Any… assistant work?”

“Just wait.”

“Mmmmm.” A lackluster response, but you think you can be forgiven for that.

After a moment of hesitation, you ask, “What’s… initiation?”

He hums a little. “Nothing you need to worry about now.” Is it something you'll need to worry about later? That just makes you more wary.

The apartment appears on one of the monitors again. The rest display strings of numbers, or remain dormant, waiting. Are they any different from yesterday? You have no idea. You hope you won't be expected to know the difference. Staring at them doesn't reveal any hidden truth, just strains your eyes.

You have time enough to consider earlier events. It’s… well. Certainly not _good_ that he seems delighted to see you intimidated – or is it to have you rely on him, or is it both? – but he _is_ easy to read. If he stays that way, it's… better than the alternative. He’s not exactly a master manipulator.

When more time passes in silence, you think about eating another just because you’re _bored_. You’d run out faster, though, wouldn’t you? It… may have been a little hasty to take so many, but maybe not. Who knows what might happen the next time you go to get food? Maybe you were unlucky today, or maybe the savior is _usually_ in the area.

Still –

You freeze when he touches the hem of your shirt. You have to remind yourself to breathe, though in your dread it comes out forced and uneven.

You turn your head slowly, as smoothly as you can manage, until you can see his face. He's not looking at you at all. His expression remains neutral. The dread coiled in your stomach twists deeper when his hand moves but –

But…

His fingers curl against your stomach as they tug at the hem, pulling it out just slightly and up a little more. He scratches at the line of threads just above the hem, dragging his nail lightly over the fabric until it catches, then starting a new line.  

You have, apparently, stared at him long enough to notice, because he gives a heavy blink and glances down at you.

“...what?”

Now that he’s looking at you, his hand has stilled. You shake your head. “Nothing,” you say, and then turn back. There's another moment before he resumes picking at the keyboard, and twice as long to keep scratching at the threads.

Another quick glance back shows that same neutral, if tired, expression.

Is he… really even aware of what he's doing? Huh.

It’s not… exactly uncomfortable. At any rate, you suppose if that’s all he's doing, well. There's no harm in stopping him. It’s at least a touch less _intimate_ than petting your hair.

You’re starting to get used to it, _drowsy_ even, when he types something on the keyboard that ends in a decisive tap, and then he pulls back.

He shifts a little, nudging you lightly. “There,” he says, “now I need you.”

“What – oh, you finished?”

He hums a note in assent. Well. That… really didn’t take all _that_ long.

You shift, drawing yourself up. “Alright boss, give me a run-down, what’re we doing?”

“We,” he says, and as he types something, the screens flicker with new images, “are going to find someone new to put in the apartment.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “—come again?”

“We're finding someone to put in the apartment,” he repeats.

“Uh _-huh,_ ” you say. “And the end goal here is…?”

“Paradise.”

Right. Of course. “But not… like the way I came here.”

“Mmh.” An image pops up on the center screen – a stranger – and the monitors around it begin to flicker to life, displaying actual, readable words this time, not strings of numbers. “Someone who will lead others to paradise. Someone more…” he glances down at you, and his lips quirk up. “...cooperative.”

“ _We're_ gonna pick someone to lead to the apartment, so _they_ can lead others to paradise.” What the hell, is this what you were supposed to do? “We're going to find someone and… talk to them so they learn about paradise, and they’ll… what, find someone else to bring here?”

“No,” he says, but does not elaborate. “You’ll be helping me sort through candidates.” More typing, a pause, and then another picture of a stranger joins the first.

Okay, so this is – damn it, possibly leading to kidnapping? And he wants _you_ to help? He wants you to _help_? No. God, no. You don't want to be stuck here, and you don't want another poor sap here, and you sure as hell don't want to be the reason why.

After considerable hesitation, you speak. “Hey, boss, listen, do you – have files on any of them yet? Or… notes?”

He just looks at you.

“Because – I mean –” You shake your head, trying to work out this excuse. “Candidates, right? So… I was also picked out of a few?” You pause a moment for confirmation. “Right, right, so are these people—” You gesture behind you at the screens, though only one shows a person at the moment. “—left over from when you were considering others?”

He narrows his eyes at you, then nods, slowly.

“Alright, see, there’s your first mistake – you have to throw all that out.”

He actually looks affronted now.

“No, I mean it, look – whatever you were doing ended up in choosing me, right? And I'm not at the apartment, am I?” You spread your hands over your chest, then backtrack. “I mean, I love it here, don't get me wrong, but that's not the goal now, is it? And it stands to reason that these other people might have that same, uh, fatal flaw that made me back out at the last moment. Right?”

He's looking at you like he's trying to figure you out. You try to brighten your smile and do your best to seem enthusiastic.

“So, let’s… start over.” You plaster on a nervous grin. “Naturally, as your assistant, I'm here to help you through this. I can help you avoid anyone who’s… well. Too much like me in that regard. Sound good?"

He regards you a moment longer, and you try not to shrink under his scrutiny. “...maybe,” he says at last.

Maybe. That might have to be good enough.  

“—hey, do you have any info saved on me? If you show me, I’ll have a better idea of what we’re looking for.”

He winds an arm around your waist and tugs you in closer. “Mm _hmm_.” From this proximity, you can feel his breath against your neck, can feel the rise and fall of his chest, can feel the slight movements as he glances from screen to screen.

You suppress a sigh of relief as the pictures clear to make room for new information. Keep finding little distractions, and you may just be able to stall him.

God, what a mess you’re in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been ALMOST A MONTH SINCE I UPDATED hot damn, that's what happens when you have a week of essays, a week of exams, and then another week of essays. .........and I may or may not have put off homework all weekend so I could finish this.  
> but! it's 14 frigging pages and it's almost twice as long as the first two chapters combined so?? hopefully that makes up for it?? and if not maybe the fact that I have lots of notes on the next chapter will???  
> also, gonna start trying to be less shy and actually respond to comments from now on because you guys are sweet.


	4. hair-petting: an act of intimacy or a new fad? the answer may surprise you!

In the morning, he has you sorting through… stuff.

Files, sort of. It’s not  _ exactly _ organized enough to qualify as such, but ‘miscellany’ implies more variety than this mishmash of papers, and you suppose it will be file-like by the time you’re through with it. 

Receipts, some new, but mostly old, dated two, or three, or four years back. Not  _ particularly _ old, but odd to have so many gathered. Personal information on, you presume, at least a dozen different people, ranging from handwritten notes that ramble on in cramped script to neatly arranged pages that look more like they've been plucked from résumés or, in some cases, biographies. And then more papers, less themed than the papers that came before, harder to sort. 

Stacked up against the walls, growing taller in the corners, are boxes and boxes that, you presume, contain more of the same, filled up heavy enough that you’re sweating after pulling down one from the top and carrying it to the center of the room, where there’s space to pull out the contents. 

Without much context for this, you make up your own systems, plucking receipts from the box and arranging them by the theme of what’s been bought, then by date within these smaller stacks. It’s harder to decide what to do with the ones concerning people. 

You can’t even  _ ask _ \-- he’s out somewhere doing… well, you’re not really sure. “Surveillance,” he’d said, but what exactly this entails is beyond you. You strongly suspect this is just  _ busywork _ .

He’d said he was going out, but refused to elaborate, even when you pressed for details. He gave some instructions regarding the papers, said to make sure you kept busy with it, then added, “and stay here.” As  _ if  _ you’re gonna go wandering around creep central and risk running into even bigger creeps than him.

In a way, that makes it easier to devote yourself to doing this; there’s no uncomfortable, lingering sense that you’re helping him further a nefarious plot, you’re just keeping yourself out of trouble. And, damn him, if he’s not expecting much from you, you’ll show him up. You’ll make the most beautifully-organized piles he’s ever seen.

Kneeling here on the floor, concentrating on the work, you’re the perfect picture of steadfast diligence. You half-wish you had a bandana to tie around your head to complete the look. -- maybe an apron to add on, too.

You have about a third of the second box left now. You’d celebrate, if you had anything to celebrate  _ with. _

These, here -- these two papers are  _ almost  _ identical, but there's small differences between them, more and more as you look; different font for the headers, a slight type on one. Like a damn ‘spot the difference!’ inset. 

You hear the door open but, so absorbed in puzzling out this issue, you are slow to respond, and slower still to move. 

“Back so soon? Great, I’m drawing a blank with some of these papers, maybe you can help meeeee--”

That is not your boss.

That is  _ the _ boss.

Oh, god. You just called out to the savior. 

You're not sure what it is, exactly -- the angle of her chin, perhaps, or the way her hair seems to float around her, a personal halo of golden sunlight, or maybe it's how soft her smile is, faint dimples suggesting  _ docility _ even as her eyes are sharp, appraising. Her gaze strips you of your defenses, leaving you bare to examine. 

So the eyes, maybe. Whatever  _ it _ is, it makes you slow as you draw yourself up, the papers you were examining falling by the wayside. 

“--savior.” There's something reverent in the gasp. 

Her smile widens, and it's funny how, wary as you are of her, it makes you feel blessed. God, no wonder they worship her. She has quite the presence. 

You stand on suddenly-unsteady feet as she draws near --  _ floats  _ \-- and hope you can pass off the shakiness as a result of your meticulous work. 

She says nothing, just… smiles softly and begins an arc around you. Your nervousness grows, but when you open your mouth and turn your head to question her, she straightens you with a gentle push against your jaw. After another moment, she stops once more in front of you, and stills. 

“Hmm,” is all she says, and you don't know whether to be comforted or unsettled by this appraisal. 

Light, it seems, is radiating from her, seeping out from her every movement, no matter how small. A cold light, perhaps, and difficult to look directly at, but she certainly has a  _ presence _ . 

“Here,” she says, “let me have a better look at you.” She grasps your chin. Her grip is light, exerting little pressure, but the look in her eyes brooks no argument, no room to pull away. 

Her thumb gently strokes over your jawline, and then she says, “You  _ are  _ as obedient as he says, aren’t you?” When she smiles, it is gentle, and yet not. Beatific. 

_ Has  _ he said that? Does she really believe it?

Somehow the way she says it makes you feel, for a moment,  _ glad _ to receive such a compliment; as if you  _ want _ to be obedient. Who would mind being called such if she’s the one who says it?

You duck your head as much as you can with her grip on you and avert your eyes in a show of bashfulness. 

“--thank you.” You don’t know what else you could say. 

“Oh, don’t turn away. You have lovely eyes.”

Well, now you’re  _ actually _ bashful, instead of just playing at it.

She appraises you a moment longer -- then abruptly reaches out and runs a hand through your hair. You freeze, stunned. She combs through it a few times, and lingers on the last stroke, palm resting against your temple, before pulling away. 

“There,” she decides. Her smile grows, just slightly. “Perhaps we should get you a brush so that you can do it yourself in the future. But don’t worry. Now you’re perfect.”

You blink, slowly, heavily. It’s -- harder to tell with her than it is with him. You’re not sure if she’s being genuine, or if she’s messing with you.

She tilts her head. “Now, you must know there were doubts, after the… unforeseen deviations from the  _ last _ plan.” Ah. No longer talking about your appearance, then. “...but I think you’ll do nicely here.”

Now  _ that’s _ interesting. How much doubt might she mean? But -- oh, this means they  _ do  _ expect you to stay here forever. Wonderful. You try not to let these thoughts show on your face, and instead keep your smile plastered on.

It seems to work -- or at least, the savior does not comment on this. She clasps her hands together. “Now my dear, how are you liking it here in magenta?”

Is. Is that what this place is called? Or... is this a test? You smile and try not to let your nerves show. “I'm -- very happy here,” you say, “and I -- hope I can be of use.” That's sufficiently ingratiating, right?

“Oh?” She says. Are… you supposed to continue here? She seems a little… disappointed that you do not take the cues, and prompts, “no troubles, I hope?”

“I’ve... had a  _ little  _ trouble finding my way,” you admit, “but it’s not -- it’s hardly even a problem, really. Plus--” And you pause, trying to figure out how to explain this without telling her the possibility of running into anyone makes your skin crawl, “I… feel I shouldn’t… explore without a use. Alone, anyway.”

“You  _ are _ free to wander, my dear. This is your paradise too.”

You hesitate. “I… that may be so, but I would… rather be helpful where I can.”

Her eyes narrow. “Well,” she says, voice still sticky sweet, “aren't you dedicated.”

Despite the veiled edge, you think this was still the right thing to say, and you almost sag in relief. 

“Still,” she says, “Do be careful. Some will doubt you until your initiation.” A warning? Looking out for you? “Take care not to fuel their doubts.” Oh. Not quite. 

“Is there, ah… any -- anything else I could do to… further… paradise?” You wince at how awkwardly this comes out. The other question, the need to know ‘ _ what is initiation _ ?’ itches at you, but -- whether out of some genuine premonition or just fear, you cannot ask. 

“No. Only help him in his work.” Well… good, then. “You make a fine addition to paradise,” she says, “...but I don't think we should have a repeat of this. Do you?”

You shake your head adamantly. This, at least, is not a lie. 

She smiles, and it’s like sunbeams. “Good.”

“Now, I suppose you are eager to return to your… important business.” She gives the stacks of papers a pointed look. “I’ll leave you to it.”

She pats your cheek and then off she goes, steps so light she hardly seems to touch the ground at all, her robes swishing behind her. 

She leaves the room darker in her absence, somehow. 

Well, that was… harrowing. What are you supposed to do  _ now _ ?

You can’t just keep standing here, shell-shocked; if she came back, that level of  _ un _ productivity would… probably not bode well.

So, slowly, you sink back down behind the box. For a few long minutes you just stare at the contents and then, carefully, you get back to work. 

You can’t say you’re really absorbing any of it, but it sounds like it’s important not to seem idle. Still, you should hope this really  _ is  _ just busy-work, or else you might be screwed. 

There’s less method to your motions, now; receipts get sorted out, but anything that’s mostly text is a little too hard to focus on, and it all gets pushed together. That pile would probably need extra sorting through, if there’s anything of worth in it at all. 

It’s distracting, but not  _ quite _ enough. 

It seems both soon after and agonizing hours later when he finally returns. Regardless of how long it’s been, you’re still on a terror-caused adrenaline kick -- 

Which may be why, when he walks through the door, you immediately try to take your mind off it by launching into something cheery. 

“Heyyyy, boss, how did… mysterious business go?” Maybe conversation will help with the anxiety. 

He looks your way as he moves away from the door and crosses to the monitors, but says nothing. Great.  You probably should have expected that. 

Alright, new tactic. “So,” you say, tacking an agreeable smile on your face. “I'm gonna get that uniform soon, right?” 

He gives you an odd look. You power through this. “Y’know, the sexy secretary look -- button-up shirt, smart shoes, glasses on a chain, pencil skirt or slacks? Traditional stuff. Or  _ ooh _ , maybe a pantsuit? If you're into that. Accessorize with a notepad or something, fashion  _ and _ function. Or is that more  _ reporter _ than secretary?”

He’s frowning at you now, head tilted as he tries to take in what you’re saying. Okay, well, maybe another topic will interest him. “--well, it doesn’t matter. Hey, did you use the voice modulator thing again today?” This last question comes as you watch him unclasp the modulator from around his neck and set it on the desk. 

He narrows his eyes at you as you finish your deluge of questions, and you try not to falter under his scrutiny. It was, admittedly, a little much, but you still haven’t regained a state of calm.

“:... _ what _ ,” he says at last, and you want to laugh at how exasperated he sounds.

“Hey,” you say, “you can't just go out all afternoon and  _ not _ expect me to be restless.” Not that you know what time it is anymore. 

His mouth pulls into an unimpressed line as he rolls his shoulders. 

“Hey, c'mon, look, I got  _ so _ much done, too!”

You gesture to the piles of papers, but he barely gives them a glance before examining the monitors.  

You wait for some sort of response. It does not come. You’re pretty sure the monitors have changed  _ maybe _ twice in the entire time he’s been gone, and you frown at his inattentiveness towards you in light of this. “So, uh, where'd you go, what'd you... do?”

There's no answer, and you rock a little on your heels, still nervous. 

“The savior stopped by,” you pipe up.

He stills. 

“...what did the savior want?”

“Mmm, not sure! Checking in, but she didn't seem to be looking for you -- I guess she  _ would _ know you were gone -- so maybe she just wanted to see how I got on without you.”

He is silent again, turned once more to the monitors. Still jittery and uncomfortable with silence, you speak up again, seeking to fill it. 

“Listen,” you say, “new clothes really  _ would  _ be nice. Even if the secretary look isn’t your  _ thing _ , I’ve been wearing the same clothes this whole time, just about  _ anything _ else would be great.”

“Hmmm.” You’re not sure if that’s a contemplative noise, or if it’s just to appease you so you don’t keep pressing the issue. Whatever. 

He sits and you wander over to perch on the desk, close but not as close as you can be. Truthfully, you expect to be pulled down to take your  _ usual _ seat with him, but he -- well, he lets you stay. Huh. Strange. Nice, though. 

“What did she say?”

Oh. Maybe that silence  _ didn't  _ mean disinterest. 

“Uh -- right, the savior.” You shake your head. “Ah… well, she -- asked how I was fitting in, asked how I liked it here. Mentioned initiation again. Said I was ‘free to walk around.’“ 

There’s a flicker of displeasure in his eyes. 

“Ah, I told her I didn’t think I should be walking around without reason. Y’know, productivity, and all that jazz.” You wave a hand in an attempt to seem casual. 

He looks at you for another moment, and when he nods, he seemed pleased.

You try to figure out what else you can say. Probably best  _ not  _ to mention the touching. “She said I was… dedicated.”

“Did the savior say anything else?”

“Um. Apparently I'm… obedient.”

He actually  _ smiles.  _ Not the most pleasant smile, but not  _ entirely  _ malicious. ...you think.

“Good,” he says. 

Giving you some space, asking about your day -- he’d better be careful not to spoil you too much or you’ll get used to these sort of pleasantries. 

...still, something about his reaction itches at you. You hesitate, then say, “She's -- really something, isn't she?” This time, you don't bother trying to hide the nervousness that lingers from earlier.  You cast your eyes to the side to heighten the effect, then glance back to catch his reaction. 

It's as you suspected. He looks  _ inordinately  _ pleased at your show of discomfort, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. 

He likes you scared.  _ Wants  _ you obedient. Doll-like. 

You bite your lip to ward off a scowl, and hope it just makes you seem more frightened. 

He hums, then reaches for your wrist and gives a gentle tug. Ah, you knew it couldn't last too long. 

He urges you to him, and you follow, but does not turn you, instead pulling you until you're straddling him as he sits, facing him. 

He places a hand at the back of your head and pulls you closer, but then down a little, pulling your face to his chest, and he -- starts to stroke your hair?

You remain tense, confused, but as he continues it seems less and less likely that he's using this to segue into anything else, so you let yourself settle. Relax, if only slightly. 

Geez. If he's always gonna be this pleased when you seem scared, you should construct a sob story and cling to him next time. 

\-- is there gonna  _ be  _ a next time?

“...Are you gonna head out on any more trips? Where'd you  _ go _ ?”

You're not really expecting an answer, so you startle when he speaks. 

“I was… on surveillance.” There’s a pause before he adds, “Making sure if anything happens, we have a back-up ready. Quick in, quick out.”

You pull back to look at him. “How?”

He grins. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “...why?”

“You'll see.” There's a faint smile at his lips. “And,” he says, “Next time will be... different.”

“Next time going out?”

“Mmh.”

“Will that be… soon?”

“It depends on the progress we make.”

“Do you think you might… take me with you next time?”

“...maybe.”

When your face breaks into a nervous smile, there's… well, there sure is _some_ kinda look in his eyes. 

You're not sure what to do with that, so you turn your face away. 

“Well…” you say, “think about it, okay? I'm… not sure the savior thinks paperwork is a worthy use of time.”

He says nothing, and, still looking away, there's no way for you to know what he might be thinking. 

You lean back against him, suddenly exhausted. You don’t bother pulling back again the next time you speak, just mumble into his shirt. 

“Hey.” You pause a moment to be sure he’s listening. “At least bring back groceries next time, if you don't take me, too. A body can't live off of granola forever, you know.”

His only answer is a chuckle as he continues to pet your hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may upload a sort of mini-chapter before the next Real Chapter; I wanna give the sense of time passing and routines being built without drawing that out to the point of being boring so. mini-chapter! this seems like a good way to do this atm. so. a sooner update, unless something dire happens. 
> 
> and hooooo I know I said I'd start replying to comments but you guys are so sweet and I get shy but I promise I'm reading everything and I am so so grateful for all your wonderful comments, you guys are the best!!
> 
> also I uh…… mentioned this in the notes of another fic but i made a rp blog for my mc @ [abrasiveheroine](http://abrasiveheroine.tumblr.com/) and one for saeran @ [ofminteyes](http://ofminteyes.tumblr.com/) so if you ever want a quick dose of them in between me writing you can pop in and bug them there  
> (no pressure tho for real)  
> ((but on a similar note if you have a mint eye oc tell me about em bc it's interesting and I can work in an a reference to them in a later chapter))


	5. the days start coming and they don't stop coming

You drag it out as long as you can, but of course, you can't stall it forever.

Still, you try your best. Under your  _ watchful gaze _ , the candidates he’s picked out become riddled with flaws and tossed aside for ‘better’ choices, which you will then doubt anew. 

What makes it worse is having to strike a balance -- to slow him down but  _ seem _ like you're helping so you don't face his ire, or the ire of the savior. So you can't stop progress entirely, just… throw a wrench in it. Or twelve. Do your best to muck it up. 

So your best is what you do he gets. 

You weren’t sure it could work at first -- just saying ‘ _oh_ , _sorry boss, we got so close with this one, but this problem is_ much _too_ _big to ignore! We don't want a_ flawed _person in paradise, do we? don't worry, we'll get it soon!’_ is too easy, isn’t it? It’s gotta be harder than that, right?

And… it is, sort of. But not much.

He presents you with person after person, some from his previous searches, some new, seeking your opinion.

It… works a little better when you don’t dismiss them right off the bat, you think. You’re not sure if it just seems too suspicious, or if it’s because agreeing with some good traits of those he’s chosen stokes his ego. Could be both; he does seem to want your approval. 

So you agree -- yes, what a convenient schedule they have; oh yes, studying abroad does leave them pretty vulnerable; recently out of a job and looking for a place to stay, yes, they seem like they’d jump at the offer. 

And then you, well, crush his hopes. You shake your head. “But, see…” you say. ““Look how often their parents comment on their posts -- classic helicopter parenting. They'd never let ‘em stay at a stranger's apartment, even for a little while.”

Or: “Okay, I can see how they seem like they’d fit,  _ but  _ look how many conspiracy theory blogs they're subscribed to, they’d be  _ way  _ too paranoid to listen to some random text.” 

Or: “Nah, see, look where they work, that place  _ neeeeever  _ gives time off. Pay is pretty good, though, so they wouldn't risk losing that job so they can stay at a stranger’s apartment.”

Speaking of which, you are  _ so  _ fired. 

It’s a little disturbing sometimes. At times it’s too much like you’re  _ actually _ giving him advice. But -- that’s not your fault. If you have to traverse some skeevy territory in order to prevent, or even just  _ delay _ someone else being dragged into this weird cult, so be it. 

Thankfully, you find ways to break up the days. There’s still sorting --  _ so  _ much sorting through people -- but at least it’s not all at once. 

So. Wake up, look over some candidates, pester him to eat, drag that out, look over candidates, dissuade him as much as you can, pester him to eat  _ and  _ to sleep, head off to bed, rinse, repeat. 

It's a dull routine, but at least it's one that involves you.

Despite how much work you’re getting done with him, and despite how often he’ll point out little details about these people, he still stays up after you go to bed. 

You don't know  _ how _ long after, or hell, if he's even sleeping at all -- if he’s coming back to his bed to crash when you’re sleeping and then getting up before you do, or if he falls asleep in his chair, or if he has another room somewhere. 

You feel confident in thinking that it's probably not healthy, whatever he's on, just by virtue of it being him. You'd push the issue, but since the only solution is to needle him into taking the bed and there's an alarming chance that he'd just try to join you, you leave it alone for now. 

You  _ do  _ push for breaks, though, dragging him along on trips to the kitchen when you can manage it, and making solo trips when you can't, furtively carrying back little packaged foods and trying not to look suspicious. 

(Once, after spending an hour pleading with him to eat only to be met with unrelenting refusal, you took it upon yourself to  _ make  _ him eat. 

He was  _ intensely  _ unamused, and you had to do some grade A sucking up to get him to stop sulking, but... the face he made when you managed to shove 3/4 of a granola bar into his mouth before he sputtered and pushed you back was _ so worth it _ . And it  _ did _ seem to make him more amenable to listening to you afterwards, so yeah, definitely a win.)

You learn that he’s partial to sweet things, and not at all to bitter; it's much easier to coax him to eat when there's something sugary and processed, hardly having to force him at all. 

Some cereal counts, thankfully. The savior doesn't seem to see the point in keeping candy bars in the cabinets, but your  _ boss  _ is satisfied with a handful of frosted corn flakes. 

You learn a few more interesting tidbits, too.

It starts with another trip to the kitchens, at… well, you’re not sure what time it is, exactly. You’ve been up for a while, nitpicking over profiles, so it  _ feels  _ like night. Like you’re just padding through the hallways for a midnight snack.

Most of the lights are off. You press a hand to the wall so you don't stray and walk face-first into a door, or a follower. 

You find your way easily, which is… well, there's something sad in that, in having made the journey often enough that it's easy even in the dark. At least it helps you. 

The lights are down low in the kitchen as well.

Someone is standing by the counters, the open cabinet door obscuring their face. Well, you can tell from that they sure are  _ tall _ .

The hand holding open the cabinet looks delicate somehow **.**

You're... reluctant to speak to anyone, but if they move just a bit, just for a moment, you’ll be able to rummage around in there and grab something and be gone in just a minute --  _ hardly _ an inconvenience, right?

So, after a moment of hesitation, you step in out of the doorway.

“...hey.”

The person yelps and spins, the cabinet swinging shut when they draw back so you can see them. 

It’s… a girl, quite tall, dressed in the robes of the other cult members and staring at you with wide eyes. Pale, even in the low light, a complete deer in the headlights look to her.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she blurts. 

“...I’m not?”

Oh, shit, is that why the savior‘s been stopping by? Did you skate onto thin ice that day she saw you in here? Why didn’t anyone  _ say _ something? 

But as you’re thinking this, the girl starts fretting. .

“Well -- I-I don’t know, maybe, it’s just -- your clothes --” She gnaws her lower lip.

You glance down at yourself. “Oh… yeah, I know, same thing all the time, haven’t even been able to wash ‘em. Kinda gross, right?”

She shakes her head. “No that’s not it, I just -- you don’t have…”

You stare at her, confused, waiting for her to continue, but she just glances away, looking nervous. Briefly, she looks down at herself, then up at you. Oh, does she mean -- “...robes?”

She nods. 

“Oh. No, I don’t have those. Not… yet, anyway?” You don’t know if you’re  _ supposed _ to get some any time soon, or… ever. Hopefully not, those things look like  _ such _ tripping hazards. 

The girl’s fingers interlace and fidget. “But… you’re with  _ him _ , aren’t you?”

“Yyyyeah.” You give a lax salute. “Best possible cultist assistant everrrr.”

If possible, she looks even more distressed. Maybe that wasn't the best response. 

“I was about to start -- prepping for breakfast,” she says. She looks like she's going to add something after that, but she stays quiet. 

_ Ha _ , it  _ is _ late night. Or early morning. Or… not-so-early morning. 

“Oh…” you say, “sorry, was I in the way?”

She shakes her head frantically. “N-no, I wouldn't -- I don't mean to imply that y-you're in the way at all, I -- I --”

Wow, she is on edge. “Al...right,” you say, “well…” At this point it might be best to grab something and skedaddle. 

Your plan  _ had  _ been to just rummage around to see what might catch your eye, but right now, even that seems too time-consuming. 

You edge in closer, cautiously, but she remains frozen, so you just… open the nearest drawer and grab a handful of whatever's in there.  More granola, great. 

There’s a little pyramid of apples on the counter, just past her, so you lean over and palm one. You haven’t tested how  _ the boss  _ feels about these yet, might be interesting to find out. She squeaks out a ‘sorry’ as you straighten and make for the door. 

Are you really that intimidating, or did you just catch her off-guard? Geez, whatever it is, you feel kinda bad about it. 

It's only after you get back that you realize it may have been out because she was going to use them, but it's a little too late. 

On another day, you head to the kitchens again, but as you near, you can see that there’s a  _ lot _ of people in there, which is…  _ not _ something you can deal with at the moment, so you just keep on walking as if you intended that all along.

You end up passing the throne room, and there she is, speaking to an audience. 

You slow unintentionally to watch. 

All those promises of paradise and diligence and blah blah blah she’s saying, it’s all bullshit, obviously, but  _ damn  _ if she doesn’t have a way with words. If not for how you came here, you might be swept into it too. 

You only stand there for a moment,  _ can't  _ be long, but when you see her start to turn her head you bolt. 

…you don’t know if she saw you. It'd be just your luck if she did, wouldn't it?

When you get back and he pulls you into your usual seat, you ask, “So were you going to tell me there were scheduled lunch hours, or were you just gonna let me look like a fool, huh?”

“It's a waste of time.”

You squint at him, not fully understanding. Bad food? Too long to get it? ...the whole concept of eating is a waste of time? Maybe he just doesn’t want you mingling? “What part is?”

“Mmh.”

You imitate him, leaning in to look him in the eye. “ _ Mmh _ .” 

He turns his head to look at you, eyes narrowed, then, with a curled finger, pokes you in the center of your forehead. “Mmh,” he repeats. His lips curl up slightly. At least he’s amused.

You lean back against him.

If you're right, then in one moment… two… three…

He shifts and straightens and two of the center monitors suddenly show something different.

“Here,” he says, “these look promising.”

Right on schedule.

...that says something too, maybe, that you've learned to anticipate his moves.

Well, maybe you should just congratulate yourself on being such a natural detective. 

...maybe there’s also something to be said for how he always seems to find a way past your distractions before too long.

Even after everything, despite your best efforts... progress continues.

You distill it down to five candidates.

It’s funny, they don’t have much in common in… well, in  _ most _ regards -- in looks, in background, in personality -- but apparently, something about them strikes you -- strikes  _ him _ \-- as right for this job. Or, at least, something about makes it seem as though they’re likely to listen to him. 

Five still has to be narrowed down to one, but this is happening too fast around you.

If you don’t figure something out, this could take a turn for the worst. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y’all. y’aaaaaall. H ave you seen the new christmas content because i have and i am deceASED THAT WAS SUCH GOOD SAERAN CONTENT I’m still burned out from finals I finished (AND MOSTLY ACED) a few days ago, but this dlc fired me rIGHT BACK UP AND I FINISHED THIS TODAY FOR U  
> also if you draw fanart of shoving a granola bar in saeran’s mouth I will owe you. sssssomething. firstborns are hard to ship across the country so i guess my gratitude and a drabble would have to suffice.


	6. when plans to endear your kidnapper to you go horribly wrong; or, when success makes everything fucky

You can’t be yourself out here.  
  
You’re… not sure if anyone’s looking for you -- as depressing as the thought might be, you have to assume the worst if you want to be realistic about getting out of here -- but it seems, at least, that _paradise_ has prepared for that possibility.  
  
He looks -- halfway normal. Reminds you of that photo he sent, back when he was trying to convince you to trust him. Apparently he's pretty attached to that mess of an outfit he wears normally because he's still got on most of his _accessories_ , even though spiked wrist cuffs seem just _slightly_ out of place with flannel jackets and turtlenecks. With a dark wig to top it off, he might be able to pass as someone you'd see on the street.  
  
No change to the eyes, though. Interesting.  
  
You don't get an outfit change. You don't even get sunglasses.  
  
How you look isn't what's important, for you. No, that's more about roles, excuses to fall back on if needed.  
  
He briefs you before you leave.  
  
And your cover is that you are… dating. You're sure _that’s_ got nothing to do with his own preferences, _nooooooo_ , that’s _definitely_ just for the sake of a cover.  
  
You’d asked him as you prepared to leave -- “what do I call you out there if I need to? I mean. Calling you ‘boss’ isn’t really going to work as a cover. So…”  
  
“Your boyfriend.”  
  
You made a face. “The fact that you can say that with a straight face speaks volumes about you.”  
  
He only smirked more. Jerk. God, are you ever going to learn anyone’s name here? Apparently _not_.

He made you wear the stupid blindfold again, though he was smart enough to pull the car over and remove it when you were almost to the city.  
  
And now you’re… here. In the car. With him. Spying on potential kidnap victims.  
  
If combing through blogs and personal pages didn’t make you feel like scum, this sure as hell does.  
  
You're… checking how accurate his patterns for them are, it seems. Seeing if they deviate in any way, if they interact with anyone unexpected, if they seem to match what you've gathered of them.  
  
...If you had stopped to talk to someone on your way home from work one day, would you still have ended up here?  
  
Well. Doesn't matter now. You’re already here. You just have to… try to stop him from putting anyone else in your position.  
  
And, unfortunately, it’s got your nerves on high alert, and you _may_ be suffering from a slight case of nervous motor-mouth.  
  
“Hey boss, you don't mind if I put my feet up on the dash, do you? No? Great, thanks.”  
  
You never imagined that you would one day be propping your feet on the dashboard of a shitty cramped car while feeling enough anxiety to be physically nauseated, but stalling for time has _not_ gone well.  
  
Nonchalance is your best cover. It might be why he’s let you get away with so much.  
  
Why, earlier today, you'd even --  
  
You yelp as his hand ghosts over your bare leg, from ankle to knee and farther.  
  
You wriggle and this is enough for him to pull away at the hem of your shorts. ...would he have stopped there anyway, or would he have just traced that path right back down if you didn't move?  
  
He meets your gaze with an amused smirk and makes as if to turn back to the window you've been surveying.  
  
You make a noise of protest. “Wh -- you're not even gonna tell me to stay alert or anything? What was that for, then?”  
  
“Wanted to.” To punctuate this, he returns his hand to your knee, tracing lightly over your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake.  
  
“Wwwell,” you say, throat suddenly dry. “Far be it from me to get in the way of chasing your dreams.”  
  
His smirk worsens, and he trails his fingers to your thigh.  
  
You have to fight the urge to let your eyes slide shut. You will _not_ get shivery because of someone who’s been making you _spy_ with him. Even if it does feel… remarkably… _not_ unpleasant.  
  
...If he can't tell you're imagining his fingers in more… intimate places, it's fine, right?  
  
God, no, it is not a good sign if you're starting to find this creep attractive. He’s nice-looking, sure, but he’s also keeping you held here, and you will _not_ fall for that kind of stockholm bullshit.  
  
Blessedly, you’re saved by the view _finally_ changing.  
  
“--Boss.” There's movement at the window.  
  
Immediately, he draws back, eyes locking onto the window, where the girl can now be seen.  
  
For a moment, you both simply observe.  
  
He might be watching the window for some telltale sign of rightness or wrongness for whatever nefarious plans paradise has, but you, on the other hand, are not looking for anything in particular -- or at least, not about the girl. You’re just looking for openings.  
  
Like this one.  
  
You scooch closer, lean into him, then casually hop into his lap. You ignore whatever look he might be giving you, and deftly push away the thought that it might be a look of _interest_ \-- the pair of you are on surveillance, so it makes sense that you’d want to get a closer look, right? Not suspicious at all. Definitely not trying to get him to put his guard down around you, _no_ sir.  
  
You haven’t managed to distract him as thoroughly as you were hoping today, but you’ll be damned if you give up now.  
  
You keep your eyes fixed resolutely on the window, and after a moment, his arm slips around your waist. Another moment passes, and then you can feel him lean his cheek against the back of your head.  
  
...comfortable is… good for you, right? Certainly has to be better than him raising his guard against you.  
  
So you relax a little into him and watch the window.  
  
This has actually been the quietest stakeout so far -- the only one that hasn't involved doing some active shady shit.  
  
Or, just active shit, anyway. It's all inherently shady. This one’s been… sort of a break compared to how everything else went.  
  
You've ducked under awnings and peered into the windows of high-rise buildings, you've skulked around offices and lied your ass off at two different front desks, nursed the same cup of coffee for two hours just to stay in a cafe and watch someone across the street… there were a few times where you seemed close enough that you thought you might get caught, but no, you survived it all.  
  
Some part of you knew already that you couldn’t dissuade him from picking one of these five in the end, but that didn’t stop you from critiquing them anyway, as though it might make a difference.  
  
(“Heirs and heiresses -- I'm not saying it can’t be done, I'm just saying it's a little high-profile.”  
  
“Okay, the business lady looks like she could kick my ass effortlessly. I would thank her if she did.”  
  
“What kind of person is so private that they never go outdoors but then never shut the curtains? That's some voyeur shit for sure. She also looks like she could kick my ass. I like this theme you went with here.”  
  
“Did you pick these people because they have their life together or because they're all noticeably attractive? And was it the same for me? Because boss… bad news for you if it's one of those, and I'm flattered if it's the other.”  
  
He grew sick of your comments after a while, you could tell, but expected them, too. Or you assume that's why he gave you a rather suspicious look before prodding you for your opinion when you didn't immediately pipe up with your judgments, finding the silence conspicuous.  
  
You'd just shrugged then. “Nothing, nothing! Just… an interesting style of dress. Very… bold. I didn't know unicorns were _in_ right now. Can I just say that they're my favorite so far? Because they're my favorite.”)  
  
But… after all of that, you can tell that _this_ is who he's going to choose.  
  
He certainly seemed to linger the most on her profile back in paradise, and from what you remember, it's no wonder -- online classes, between jobs, doesn't seem to leave the house except for groceries? It's a perfect match.  
  
You won't exactly have to struggle  
with the how and where of getting her if she never leaves the house or even has visitors, and who would miss her soon enough to find her?  
  
You, if you can help it, but if not you, well… she is, quite probably, fucked.  
  
_God,_ you hope someone's looking for you.  
  
He shifts suddenly, nearly displacing you in the process, but pulls you back to him with the arm around his waist. You mutter a thanks and peer up at him.  
  
“She's at the window,” he murmurs, and when you sneak a glance past him, you can indeed see the girl standing at her window, looking out at the street below.  
  
He pulls you in a little closer, and you lean into him obligingly, helping to make it look like you’re just a couple getting cozy. “You know, you wouldn't have to hide your face or… all of me… if you got contacts. And different clothes for me.”  
  
“Hmm.” You huff at the indifferent noise, and his lips quirk up.  
  
“...I think she's moved away again,” you say, catching the movement out of the corner of your eye.  
  
You start to shift to a better position to see the window again, but he says, “I think we've seen enough.”  
  
“We… have?”  
  
He messes with his phone before responding -- well, maybe messing with it isn’t the best way to describe it, considering how scary-capable he’s been with it thus far. “Mmm _hmm_. Everything’s in place and ready.”  
  
You have to resist a shudder at how final that sounds, how… sure. Like everything’s on track and nothing could go wrong. Instead, you say, “Boss, what can you see on there that you can't from here? ...how many systems are you tapped into, you're like some kind of sinister tech wizard. Why am I even here if you're still monitoring everyone even 50 feet away from them?”  
  
“I like your company.” He glances up from his phone and tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. “Don't you like mine?”  
  
“...sure, boss.”  
  
He lets go of you at last only to drag his knuckles along your jaw and rest his thumb at your pulse point, smirking when you stiffen.  
  
“I think you do.” And then he pulls back and nudges you gently until you wiggle off his lap and into your own seat.  
  
...did he just feel your _pulse_? _That's_ his basis for -- oh, that is _not_ an accurate representation of anything you feel right now. You can't really dispute that with any proof, though. Bastard.  
  
You settle into seat as he starts the car, and you stare resolutely out the window instead of looking at him. After only a short time has passed, though, you start watching the passing scenery with renewed interest.  
  
This… doesn’t seem like the way back. Granted, maybe you’re taking an alternate route for secrecy or whatever, but --  
  
“Close your eyes.”  
  
“...what?” And then you straighten in indignation. “Wait, boss, c’ _mon_.” You had to take the blindfold off earlier as you neared the city, so it’s not exactly surprising that he’ll keep the route secret on the way back, but do you really need to be blinded _now_?  
  
He only chuckles. “Close your eyes,” he repeats. “Be patient.”  
  
So you do, reluctantly. You try to sneak a surreptitious peek a few times, but can't catch anything identifying enough in those brief seconds to know anything, save that you still seem to be in the city.  
  
He parks the car after not too long -- city limits, maybe?  
  
“Stay there,” he instructs. And it’s not like you’re in the best position to make a run for it now. You gather from what your hear that he exits the car and closes his door, and then he must come around to your side of the car, because moments later, he is opening your door for you.  
  
“Keep them closed,” he says, and he takes hold of one hand to help you out and then covers your eyes.  
  
And then he sort of just… guides you. Walks behind you and urges you on. It’s sort of slow going though, out of necessity, and you say, “You don't wanna just use the blindfold again, boss? It's right in the car, that might be quicker than all this. Can’t imagine that this doesn’t look strange without it, anyway.”  
  
“Shhh, just be patient. Good things come to those who wait, and you do want good things, don’t you?”  
  
“...okay, now I'm nervous.”  
  
He gives a low chuckle, but says nothing else until he drops his hands and brings you both to a stop.  
  
“Alright,” he murmurs, “you can look now.”  
  
With no small measure of trepidation, you open your eyes, and you can see now that after all this fuss he has brought you to stand before...  
  
“...a thrift store?” And then the implication dawns on you. “A thrift store!” You turn to him and find him wearing what may be the smuggest expression you've seen seen on him thus far, and that's saying something. But for good reason -- the idea of finally being able to get out of these grubby clothes that you've been wearing nonstop for five goddamn days makes you feel almost deliriously happy. You could weep with joy right here.  
  
\-- if he's not teasing you. Oh, he'd better not be teasing you.  
  
“Boss,” you say, growing suddenly desperate, turning to clutch at his shirt in your frenzy, “tell me this means what I think it means. _Tell me_ you’re actually going to let me get out of these gross clothes.”  
  
“If all you wanted was to get out of them--”  
  
“ _Boss_.”  
  
And he actually laughs. “I told you you’d be happy in paradise, didn’t I? And you _have_ been good. This is your reward.”  
  
You don’t even think about it when you pull him into a crushing hug.  
  
The joy you feel is too overwhelming -- you’re really just acting on the sheer elation of thinking about how _good_ it’ll feel to wear something clean, and maybe you can even get some pajamas and _finally_ not have to sleep in your day clothes.  
  
You definitely think about it when he puts a hesitant arm around you, though.  
  
And now you’re just standing there. Holding your disguised cult-boss, in the middle of the sidewalk, as he stands stiff and uncomfortable. You pull back quickly.  
  
From his expression, you can tell that he doesn’t seem to know how to react to that. You’re not really sure, either.  
  
...he does look faintly pink.  
  
You… do not want to deal with any sort of conversation this might result in. “Well,” you say. You gesture vaguely towards the doors and begin taking slow steps over. “Let’s… see what they’ve got for us, huh?”  
  
He nods, looking… distracted. You choose to ignore that, hoping that this will head off any comments or, god forbid, _questions_ from him.  
  
The interior is -- interesting. There's soft jazz playing throughout the store, which looks stuck in the 70s, with low ceilings and deeply plush carpets, but it’s clean and large enough that you can probably enough to fit you, so fuck it, it’s new clothes and you’re lucky to be offered this.  
  
So, where to start?  
  
Simple is best. You don't know how much time you'll be given to browse, so you'd better find something to fit your needs as quick as you can. Anything else can come later, if you've got the time for it.  
  
There's actually a pretty decent organizational system in here, all things considered. Everything's kept in easy-to find sections, and sizing is… well, mostly mixed up, but at least you can sort within the sections.  
  
And, miracle of miracles, there's unopened packs of underwear for sale. You could almost weep. Considering your situation, you don't even care if it turns out to be the scratchy cheap kind.  
  
It only takes you a few minutes to find what could be the basis of a few simple outfits, if they indeed fit you. You're not really sure what to do about pajamas, so you grab a few of the biggest, comfiest shirts they have -- most of which, for some reason have to do with various family trips? Whatever, they’re cheap and soft.  
  
You’re sorting through another rack, hoping to find some comfortable sweatpants or something similar, when he comes up behind you and rests his hands on your hips. You still. God damn it, you may have created a monster.  
  
“Hello to you too?” you say.  
  
“Mmn. I’ve picked out some things for you to try,” he says. “Left them in the changing room.”  
  
“Oh,” you say. “Thank you. Wait, what did you get?”  
  
“Things you’ll look nice in.” That’s vague and debatable. “We should get going soon. Have you found everything you were looking for?”  
  
“I think so. ...thanks.” When you wiggle, trying to turn, he releases you. “Where’s the changing room?”  
  
“Back wall, that way.”  
  
“Oh, I see it now. ...you don’t need to walk me there, I see it.” But he continues despite your protests, as though you really do need to be lead.  
  
Once you actually reach the changing room, you turn to face him head-on and hold out a hand. “Alright, end of the line, boss, no following me in, you hear? I'll be quicker with _out_ your help.”  
  
He raises his eyebrows, but says nothing, and so you step inside and close and lock the door behind you.  
  
It's a little cramped, but it'll do the job. There's a little stack of clothes on a wicker chair in the corner, presumably whatever he picked out for you. Even without looking through it, you're a little wary.  
  
“Hey, boss, am I about to discover something about you and your preferences?”  
  
“Have you tried something on?” His voice is slightly muted, but he sounds… eager, and this gives you pause.  
  
“Not yet,” you decide. “Let me work my way through what I found and then give yours a go.”  
  
“Well… be quick about it.” You can just imagine him sulking out there, and you're grinning as you test out the clothes.  
  
Thankfully, you _are_ able to get through everything you brought with minimal fuss. Most of it fits, too, hallelujah. Goodbye to grimy clothes.  
  
So, now… the others.  
  
You consider the pile he found for you with bemusement, and finally begin to look through it.  
  
It's… actually not too bad. Considering him, anyway. But it's not great.  
  
There are… a lot of crop tops here. And tight pants. And _very_ short shorts.  
  
You're not even going to touch the hot pants, let alone consider walking out in them, and some of those tops would just be embarrassing. You suppose you could get _one_ pair of super tight pants just to make him happy. No one said you'd have to _wear_ them.  
  
And there's also some remarkably _cutesy_ clothes in there. Shirts with peter pan collars, some ribbons, some lace -- the juxtaposition is baffling.  
  
But… a pair of shorts with little embroidered flowers is pretty cute, and fits comfortably, and actually does look nice on you, especially with one crop top in particular. Lavender and lace -- who'd have expected this, huh?  
  
You twist to admire yourself in the mirror. “Hey boss,” you call out, “pretty decent haul.”  
  
He says something, but his voice is muffled.  
  
“What?” you ask.  
  
This time, you catch it. “Show me.”  
  
You start to unlock and open the door, but then pause. “...you wanna approve my outfits, or d’you just wanna watch me change?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Boss--”  
  
But it’s too late, he’s already pushed the door open and come in.  
  
You take an automatic step backwards when he shuts the door, but try to recover by posing exaggeratedly. Gotta keep him thinking you’re comfortable in his presence, gotta keep his guard down.  
  
There’s no response from him save for a slight squint. “...Come on boss, tell me I look pretty.”  
  
His eyebrows raise. “Oh,” he says, a smirk growing on his face as he takes a step closer, “Is _that_ what you want?”  
  
Damn this tiny changing room. You can only take a faltering half-step before your back hits the mirror.  
  
“Uh,” you say. You can’t seem to think of anything else. You swallow, throat suddenly dry, and attempt a nonchalant laugh as he draws ever nearer. It falters, sounding breathy and weak.  
  
“Because,” he says, now close enough that you have to flatten yourself against the mirror -- and it’s cold as shit, as if this situation wasn’t bad enough already -- to avoid being pressed against him, but even that doesn’t really work. He rests an arm above your head, casual and self-satisfied. “If that’s all it takes to make you happy…”  
  
He leans in so that his lips graze the shell of your ear, and you shiver as he murmurs, “I can think of something that’d please you far more.”  
  
He grips your hip with one hand and trails the other up your side, soft enough to be a caress. Your breathing grows shallow. “I…” your voice comes out _far_ too close to a whimper and you flush, which only makes him cockier. He cups your face and rests his thumb on your lower lip, leans in, and…  
  
There’s a knock at the door.  
  
“Hey,” comes an irritated voice from the other side, “one person to a changing room.”  
  
He actually _growls_.  
  
He tries to ignore it and lean in again, follow through with what he started -- and _danger, danger_ says your mind even as you tilt your head up so he has a better angle.  
  
The voice on the other side comes again, rapping a little more sharply. “I mean it, just one!” And then, softer: “I swear to god, if I have to call up my supervisor for the key…”  
  
He straightens a little, frowning, then shoots a baleful look at the door.  
  
You’re still reeling from -- an almost-kiss, if you interpreted that right? But how could you interpret that any other way? -- so you don't have the wherewithal to stifle your nervous giggle at his pout.  
  
“I’m just helping them zip,” he snaps, but he steps away. He hesitates for, apparently, too long, because there is _another_ knock.  
  
“Fuck, give it a rest, will you? I’m already coming out!” He glances back at you before stepping out, one hand on the doorknob.  
  
He's -- well, you don't think he's undressing you with his eyes, exactly, when he stares at you, there's not enough up-and-down glancing, but it has that same predatory feeling to it.  
  
“...that’s a good look for you,” he says softly, finally. “Try wearing it again soon.”  
  
And with the look in his eye, you don’t think he’s just talking about the clothes.  
  
As soon as the door closes behind him -- and you hear him start to bicker with the door-knocker -- you whirl to face the mirror.  
  
_Christ_ , you're wearing a dopey _I-almost-just-got-kissed-and-I-kind-of-wish-we-weren't-interrupted_ look, all… flushed and hazy and disappointed, and he was _into it_.  
  
Well… joke’s on him, because you only _sort_ of wish that, and the rest of you was very happy to be interrupted so it was not a consensus, so there.  
  
...You're in trouble. You are definitely in trouble.  
  
You take your time changing back into your clothes and gathering up everything that fits. You're as close to calm as you can get by the time you step out the door.  
  
He is… not there. Huh. Looking for some other clothes for you? Sulking or seething somewhere? Did he follow the poor employee who interrupted you so he could yell at them?  
  
You peer around racks as you wander to the front where there is, thankfully, someone standing by the cash register, a bored-looking boy with a mop of curly hair, though your darling boss isn't here.  
  
You set your chosen clothes down and continue to glance around what you can see of the store as you're rung up. When he's scanned it all, he asks flatly, “will that be all?”  
  
You wince. Ah, this is definitely the owner of the unknown voice. “Yyyep, that's it, thanks. Hey, uh… I’m sorry about…” You wave a hand vaguely. “Him. My boyfriend. He can be kind of… impulsive. I'm sorry he came in with me, and I'm sure that if he happened to threaten or insult you, he didn't really mean it.” You offer a sheepish smile.  
  
The cashier frowns, but doesn't have time to respond as the boy in question suddenly appears.  
  
He practically stalks forward, slamming down some bills on the counter and snatching the bag of clothes away from the cashier.  
  
“We're going,” he snaps, and you have just enough time to accept the bag and hear the cashier protest before you are swept away.  
  
He grabs your wrist and yanks you out the door with enough force that the bag slips off your shoulder and falls somewhere behind you as he leads you -- somewhere. Not in the direction of the car.  
  
When you turn a corner into a nearby alleyway, he releases your wrist but pushes you roughly against the brick wall.  
  
“What did you say?” His voice is harsh, frightening, and for some reason, that -- stings.  
  
You stare at him, bewildered, and he grips your arms tightly as his lips twist in a scowl.  
  
“I--” Your mind is racing, trying to figure out what could possibly have made him so angry.  
  
His grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin, and you wince. “What did you _say_?”  
  
“Geez, I said _sorry_ , okay?” He doesn't ease his grip, but he doesn't _snarl_ at you this time, so maybe you can take that as a good sign. “I said I was sorry that he had to monitor us, sorry that I brought my boyfriend in with me, okay? I barely even got that out, you were only gone for a minute, I…”  
  
“You didn't say anything else?” He demands. His voice is losing some of that edge, becoming more ragged and less furious. “Not about me? Not about paradise?”  
  
Oh. God.  
  
“I.” Your voice falters. “I didn't.” You didn't even think about it. Your voice comes out in a whisper. “I didn't breathe a word that wasn't for the cover.”  
  
The bottom of your stomach seems to drop out even as you try to rationalize it -- you don't know where you are, you don't know any escape routes, you don't know if the cashier would have believed you, let alone helped you, and given what you've seen of your boss, he might be able to track you across the goddamn globe anyway, and god, _please_ , let that knowledge be why you didn't even try.  
  
He's searching your expression, eyes darting frantically across your face. The dark wig only makes his gaze more intense, makes the pale color seem even starker, and you feel laid bare as he scrutinizes you.  
  
His own expression is unreadable, until a flash of what seems to be relief crosses over it, raw and unguarded -- and then he is crushing his mouth against yours, pinning you to the wall in a forceful embrace.  
  
Your head knocks against the wall with the fierceness of it, but it's over before you can even really process anything more than that.  
  
When you separate, you have to gasp in a breath, but he doesn't continue his -- amorous onslaught.  
  
Instead, he buries his face in the crook of your neck and reaches up to stroke your hair.  
  
It takes you a moment to realize that he's murmuring something, but you can't even begin to make out what it is until he finally loosens his grip and lets you start to pull away.  
  
“--knew you were the right one, knew you were right for paradise, you wouldn't betray us--”  
  
You shiver.  
  
Eventually, blessedly, he stops.  
  
He slides a hand down your arm to rest along your lower back. “I'm sorry to have left you alone,” he says, as if that's what he needs to apologize for. “The savior was eager to hear of our progress.” Ah, so that's what it was.  
  
“I'm… sorry to have worried you,” you say as he leads you out of the alley. He looks inordinately pleased to hear that.  
  
He lets you walk back to the car with your eyes open this time, and he picks up the discarded bag not too far from the thrift shop’s doors. At least the cashier didn't take it back.  
  
...hopefully he overpaid the cashier, not underpaid, to minimize that particular damage.  
  
You're quiet when you reach the car, but he doesn't seem to mind. There's a faint smile playing on his lips that doesn't seem to fade, and he keeps shooting you glances as you begin the trip out of the city, that are -- well -- unnerving. You've seen arrogance from him before. You've seen that dismissive possessiveness when he treats you like his little doll. But this...  
  
Well, this time you're glad when he pulls over to tie the blindfold around your eyes, because for the first time, his expression was _tender_.  
  
You don't know what this means for you, and you don't know how you're going to deal with that. The sick feeling in your stomach returns.  
  
You spend the rest of the drive nervously picking off bits of the seat where you think he can't see, and you have your own little mountain of fuzz as evidence of your distress by the time you reach paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last update this fic had was on december 19th, hoo boy. i went thru severe depression and focused all my energy and time on trying to graduate and the resulting writers block lasted months, but the saeran (and rika) content in the v route has brought me to life. also i graduated and got a full-time job that i love. woo.  
> also i was spot-fucking-on with some predictions about mint eye tha were confirmed in the v route, and my notes for the next chapters don't have to be changed besides some tweaks and i am..... a little bit smug about it. booyah for mint eye being a predictable cult.  
> huge thanks to maddy for encouragement and meticulous editing, and thank you to niku for suggestions on the 'romantic' bits that i always tear my hair out over


	7. you're on a fast-track to ruining people's lives and you want off this crazy ride

Over the course of the next few days, you begin to understand the broader picture. 

You get pieces of the puzzle one at a time, so there's still much that's unclear, but there's at least one thing you know with absolute certainty:

Your boss fucking  _ hates _ that redheaded hacker. 

And he certainly doesn't seem fond of the photographer with the expensive dyejob, though given how infrequently he shows up for a chat, you’re not yet sure if your boss’ hate for V is on the same level of what he has for the hacker. 

But good god, does his mood sour whenever the hacker appears in the chatroom logs. And considering how often that seems to happen, this means that you’ve been dealing with a very grumpy Boss these last few days. 

He reads pretty much  _ all _ the messages with indifference, regardless of content, but the hacker could say the most innocuous thing, just... comment on the blueness of the sky, and your wonderful boss would immediately start to mutter under his breath and hunch in agitation. 

Which… has pretty much already happened. Never seen someone get so angry just from hearing someone else say the stars look lovely. 

“They're traitors,” he says when you cautiously broach the subject, hoping to get some clue as to why he's so affected by them, and then he tightens his arms around your waist and drops his chin sullenly to your shoulder. 

You try some gentle prodding after that, during times he seems calmer -- just in case knowing would be important or helpful to you later. Your efforts change nothing; he remains broodingly mum, and you get the feeling that whatever history there is there, he's not keen on opening up about it, not now. 

He is, at least, much more genial when it comes to the rest of this group -- and oh, yes, wasn't that a fine revelation? The girl in the apartment is meant to lure in a group called the RFA -- Rika's Fundraising Association. 

Yes, despite the interesting composition of the group, it is a charity group that he -- and by extension, you -- are targeting. He's been working up to stalking and kidnapping a charity group. That's what you've been assisting him with. 

Oh, and that random innocent girl. He plans to kidnap her, too. Can't forget that. ...if there is moral judging to be done of you someday, there is not a single aspect of this situation that will speak well of you.

He certainly doesn’t see it that way, though. No, he seems… genuinely excited when he talks about the plans to “bring them to paradise” -- to allow them to attain true happiness at last and heal their pain.

Which is -- well, horrifying, but illuminating. Whatever grudge he has against the hacker and the photographer doesn’t carry over to the rest of the RFA. 

In addition to the two he seethes over, the group is composed of: an admittedly _adorable_ college student and MMO enthusiast who seems to be sacrificing the former for the latter in every chatlog you’ve read thus far; a musical theater actor with an ego the size of a planet but a face like a god; a cat-obsessed businessman who fluctuates between awkwardly charming and painfully obtuse; and an _extremely_ overworked assistant who you sympathize with immediately and who honestly deserves a week off from the usual bullshit, not _more_ bullshit in the form of this cult trying to induct her into their ranks. 

He points out all the strains and stresses of the members as you familiarize yourself with them, though he leaves out the other two, uninterested in delving into what _their_ sorrows  could be. They all, he says, are struggling with their own pain, suffering alone as they fail to be understood, as they wander aimlessly through life. Is a life spent mourning without resolution, or perpetually chasing a wish that still has not bore fruit, or failing to connect, or fading away, powerless, really living? 

Wouldn’t they be so much happier if they had someone who could ease their burdens, show them the way to escape this world that harms them so?

And, lucky them, they  _ can _ , because there’s a party soon to be held in their honor -- an “endless” one. Set to coincide with with a party that the RFA has decided to throw in the next few days, without questioning the mysterious girl who dropped into the messenger or whether that could be at all suspicious. 

Like, goddamn. You’re doing your best here but this might be easier if any of them were just a  _ touch _ more cautious. Maybe wait two weeks before starting to plan a grand-scale party, not just a little less than one, huh? Unbelievable.

“So… hey, boss,” you ask after he’s finished filling you in, yet again, on how  _ wonderful _ life could be after dragging this charity group to paradise. “As your assistant, should I be… involved in party prep? Y’know, calling caterers, ordering balloons and streamers? And, hey, what color should I go with? I don't want anything to clash, but it should have a  _ theme _ _ , _ shouldn't it?”

“You wouldn’t even guess at mint? Magenta?” He chuckles. “A little off your game today.”

Shit, he’s right. Step it up, self. 

“But no,” he says, “it's not quite that kind of party.” He hums a low note and rests his chin on your shoulder as he continues to scroll through one of the more recent logs. “Though they will be just as happy. Any preparations to be made for that are already underway.”

“...yeah? Like what?”

“We’ve already taken most of the necessary steps for their initiation, and their elixir will ready shortly, as well.”

“Elixir?” That doesn't sound good.

He chuckles. “You'll find out what it is soon enough.” He still seems to delight in your moments of uncertainty sometimes. “Don't worry--” He traces idle circles onto your stomach, and even with the barrier of your shirt between you, you shiver.

That barrier hasn’t been a constant, either. You're not willing to say the new outfits were a mistake -- on the contrary, having something clean to wear is _life-changing_ , one of the few bright spots in the past few days of unpleasantness -- but it _does_ allow for slightly more intimate moments, skin-against skin when he wraps his arms around your waist as he works. Though while he has unquestionably been… touchy, he hasn't gotten like he did at the thrift store, thank god for that. If there's any trace of disappointment at that fact, you push it aside. 

Now, though, he lingers so long after speaking, focused only on touching you, that you almost miss it when he continues, voice a little softer, a little more affection. “I've made sure that _yours_ will be ready sooner, and then you can officially welcome them into paradise.”

“Sounds… wonderful, boss. Can't wait.”

Though you can _almost_ forget how ominous that statement is when you consider, well, just about _every other goddamn sentence out of his mouth._ It’s like he just gets more comfortable spouting off worrying new details about this place the more he -- well, the more he thinks you’re genuinely going along for this? Which means this is working, and you suppose you’re grateful for any scrap of information you can get that you could use to get out of here, but this is just… a _lot_.

What makes it worse is how calm everything seems to become. 

Sure, having to follow the girl to be sure she didn’t change her mind after getting the apartment’s address like you did -- and possibly through the same route the he took when he tried to lure you in what seems like a lifetime ago but has really only been days ago -- was nerve-wracking, but… she took the bait. She agreed. 

Though there was a moment when she reached the door and got the code sent to her... she seemed to hesitate and your heart stopped. It wasn’t something you’d really let yourself think about before, just… sincerely hoped that wouldn't happen -- if she turned away like you did and he tried to drag her back to paradise, what would you do? 

If you had tried to stop him, would it have worked? Would she have helped you to escape, too? If it didn't work, what would happen to you, and even if it did, how long would that last? But it's not like you could have just  _ let it happen _ , let alone helped to intimidate her into the car that would take her to the cult you're tangled up with. 

But it didn't matter, because a second later -- maybe even just a half-second, really, extended by your fear -- she input the code and stepped inside the apartment. 

It wasn’t until you’d gone down the elevator and ducked into a little alcove outside the apartment that you’d thought with any degree of certainty that the plan went smoothly, and then it took reaching the car to know for sure. Lingering in the halls was apparently not the best idea now that someone  _ else  _ might start checking the security cameras and see the both of you. 

Maddeningly, he’d checked his phone, made a soft little “hmmm,” and tucked it away again in order to take your hand and start towards the car. Once you were both in, though, you couldn't help yourself. 

“So? She  _ is  _ in, isn't she, boss?”

When he looked up, his expression was immensely satisfied. “Yes,” he says, “she's already spoken to everyone, and it seems they've accepted her.” He smirked. “They're already sending selfies.” 

“Well… darn, what a shame I had to miss that,” you said. But thank god, thank god, she would be safe in there for now, at least.   


“Oh, you'll have plenty of time to get to know them later.” And he remained in high spirits on the drive back to paradise. 

The anxiety really only began to ease up when you were back in his workroom, watching the camera feeds. The distance made the situation feel marginally more manageable. 

You just… need to figure out to keep her, and the RFA, away from him, and everyone here. And yeah, you have _no_ fucking clue how you're going to do that, but you'd have had even less of a chance if he'd snatched her up then and there, so _technically_ you're at an advantage, right?

And then you keep tabs on her -- on all of them. It’s not too different from what you’d done before, actually, just… shifting focus a little. 

He’s smart enough to keep from contacting her after setting her up in the apartment, save for a brief, ominous message after the pair of you returned to paradise. 

“You’re not dangerous, are you?” she’d sent, and god, you hope not, you really do. 

There's not even much direct monitoring, or at least, not as much you were expecting. Though you _do_ go through plenty of the chatroom logs with him, there's very few that you see in real-time, and some that you, at least, don't see at all. Lingering there while the redheaded hacker is there is too great a risk, it seems, too easy to be detected. 

If he's monitoring the rest of them while you sleep you wouldn't’ be particularly surprised, though he hasn’t deigned to share anything he learned during these early chats if that’s the case. Still, even with the incomplete picture you're seeing, well. It's insightful, to say the least. In a _really_ weird way.

More than just getting used to their schedules, you get used to _them_. The chatrooms are far more intimate than scouring social media profiles -- after only a few days, your voyeuristic monitoring makes it feel as if you know them.

It’s even kind of _fun_ watching them sometimes, which is -- probably pretty bad, if you think about it. You are not a known participant to these conversations, you were not meant to know _any_ of this, and they would probably be uncomfortable as hell if they knew. Beyond uncomfortable.

And yet, the feeling persists. 

You get used to Zen’s selfies, but you don't roll your eyes at them as much as you might have before. Your perception of him seems to shift from narcissism to -- well, okay, he still seems pretty up his own ass when it comes to his looks, but not to the point of ignoring others. Now he seems more like… a protective older brother to most of the RFA. Particularly to Yoosung, although Yoosung seems to be the baby of the group, anyway. Zen is just -- a lot. Dramatic, and  _ very _ romantic, but rooted, particularly when it counts the most. 

Jumin, too, becomes more three-dimensional the more you see of him. Stoic still, yes, but oddly earnest at times, and you get used to bursts of affection in the midst of what had otherwise been a calm and collected conversation. Admittedly, this is usually -- okay, almost always -- towards cats, his own in particular, but there's a quiet sense of protectiveness you get from him, too. Not as brash or overt as Zen, but… reading his responses, you get the sense of a man who is, at least, attempting to watch over them, always willing to offer advice or a guiding hand. And it always catches you off guard when he attempts to make a joke. Who knew a rich boy could be funny sometimes?

You get used to watching his moments of cat-adoration grow into ideas that he shifts over to Jaehee, too. He needs to give that poor woman a break and a bonus so she can actually enjoy her time off. Anything less than a week would be absolutely criminal, and if this has been going on for as long as you suspect, she deserves a month on a tropical island with HD copies of each of Zen’s performances. Her dedication is admirable, even if it’s running her ragged. You come to see the kindness behind her worries, and the warmth that she shares with the new girl.

You get used to hearing Yoosung rave about his LOLOL character and bemoan server maintenances, and you come to expect him in the early-morning chatrooms, kept awake by the need to finish just one quest more, or grind for an item he's  _ sure  _ he's about to get. And… you see how much of a shock this situation is, seeing this new girl suddenly take up his cousin’s responsibilities and becoming someone that the RFA turns to. It's clear that Rika meant a lot to him, and he hasn't quite healed from her loss yet -- not that you can really fault him, given how sudden it seems her death was. He seems to blame himself for not knowing sooner and… well. How do you learn to be at peace with something like that? There's no way to apologize or make amends for not seeing clues now, so maybe the obsession with games is just clinging desperately to distractions from the thoughts. He's reading signs into the girl’s appearance, taking every parallel as encouragement from his cousin -- that she's with them still, perhaps. 

(This, too, is a source of guilt for you. It feels like you've ripped the bandage off a still-healing wound and fucked up old healing, old progress. If you're lucky, there will be more good than harm done here, but you haven't had much of that lately…)

Even that hacker your boss hates -- Seven. Or Luciel? See, there's another sign that you shouldn't know any of this, that doesn't seem like a name that was meant for you to know -- is, well, hard to dislike. A cosplay enthusiast, apparently, though you haven't been able to  _ look  _ at any of the pictures he's posted for more than a second -- the boss gets huffy and scrolls past those whenever they come up. Overworked by his job, which sounds… interesting, and possibly nightmarish. And it's not like you can fault him for finding humor in odd situations. You'd be a terrible hypocrite if you did. Affectionate, too, though he seems to have a terrible penchant for teasing poor Yoosung. You can tell -- or you think you can tell -- that there's an abundance of fondness beneath all that, though. 

And you still know jack shit about that photographer. Mr. Mystery, off on business trips and away from the messenger most of the time. 

It's probably for the best. You're not sure your boss could handle it if V was there as often as Seven. He's sullen enough already.

But he's been -- otherwise pretty relaxed. Very certain that all his plans will go well. In fact, as the days go on, there's a shift in how he responds to Seven’s appearances -- he still mutters darkly when the other hacker joins the chatrooms, even more than before, but he… recovers quicker. Although given how he's now taken to murmuring about how ‘that traitor will finally be dealt with’ and ‘everyone will see his true nature,’ it's clear what caused the change. 

If he had any doubts as to the chances of success before, they're gone now. 

This certainty also seems to be the drive behind those smug, creepy emails -- invitations to paradise. 

It seems -- well -- a little like tossing up a flare to illuminate a trail of breadcrumbs that might otherwise go unnoticed, but you don't try to dissuade him; if this gets the RFA to catch on to the real reason why all this is happening, then maybe they'll be more prepared for whatever's planned for them. 

Instead, you kept your comments light, complimentary. You didn't struggle to find something to say, though; they actually did look pretty damn nice, even if the method of delivery was creepy. 

…he could have a pretty decent career in graphic design ahead of him. Well -- design in general, you suppose. 

He was smug when you pointed out how nice the invitations looked for having been nothing more than a rough mock-up just that morning, and all the more when he said that wasn't exactly his first foray at designing. 

“What,” you’d asked, “have you made… invitations to paradise before?”

He'd laughed softly, the smile on his face looking rather indulgent as he wrapped his arms around your waist. You've gotten pretty good at twisting to face him while sitting in his lap, and he's gotten pretty good at holding you even as you shift around.

“No. At least, not like this. Any other guesses? You've seen it before. Often, even,” he'd teased, and you huffed at his tone. 

“Not if you're gonna be like that,” you muttered. You could feel yourself growing  _ sulky _ as he continued to aim that satisfied look at you, but you couldn’t help it.

“Oh, don't pout.” He’d chuckled and traced your lower lip with his thumb. “Even if it does look good on you.”

And, well. You were even more powerless against the heat that overtook your face. 

He’d taken hold of your wrist to guide your hand up his arm to rest at his bicep, and -- oh, of course. His tattoo. 

“--wait,  _ you _ designed this?”

He'd twisted a bit to allow you a better view, and you traced over the eye on his upper arm and the embellishments that scrolled further down. 

Three guesses as to why that eye is there. Still, even with… obvious cult connections… it’s a solid design. “That’s pretty impressive, boss,” you’d said. And he wears it well, though you’ll be damned if you’ll admit  _ that _ to him. 

Even still, he'd preened all night afterwards -- and his smugness only intensified when, in an attempt to distract him from the sullen hissy-fit you could sense coming after reading through an especially Seven-heavy chat, you’d asked if he was planning a design for  _ you _ now that you’re here.

He’d perked up immediately. “Do I _also_ get to decide where it goes?” His hands uncinched from your waist and moved to your hips, but you wriggled to displace him. 

“Ah-ah-ah, boss, I wanna see some designs before you start scoping out where to put it; make sure I get some bang for my buck.” And then you’d shrugged languidly. “If you’re an _expert_ at this, as you say, it shouldn’t take long, right? But it's gotta be something I like, you hear me? Don't go thinking I'll let you stick me with just anything.” And then -- well, it was probably a bad idea, but you couldn't resist teasing, “And if I _am_ satisfied with the design, well… you're the artist, and it's only right that you get to pick where to unveil your masterpiece.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eye at the challenge, but he was pleasantly content the rest of the night. 

Really, you think you've gotten pretty damn great at getting him to simmer down, these last few days in particular. 

...that’s something else you’ve been getting used to -- how casual it’s gotten with him. Comfortable, if you don’t think about it. And that, more than anything else, is the habit you will have to break yourself of. 

All the spying is intensely, emphatically invasive, a blot of creepiness in the midst of what you would like to think is an otherwise-unblemished record of non-creepy behavior, but there’s no chance of  _ continuing _ this line of voyeurism if you ever get out of this place. No, this is situational-dependant assholery, and you would gladly wash your hands of it  _ now _ if given the opportunity. 

But it’s  _ different _ with him. If you get attached, there won’t  _ be _ any getting out of here. There won’t be an end to the surveillance, there won’t be an end to this ‘party’ he’s planning -- you’ll just stay here. Forever, maybe. 

And you  _ can’t _ .   


But goddamn if it doesn’t start to feel cheap just… doing what you can to learn more about this place, doing what you can to endear yourself to him, maybe get him on your side. Oddly like betrayal. 

But it’s not _your_ fault you were kidnapped. There’s nothing nefarious about what you’re doing to slow him down. 

Yeah, the measures you’re having to take to avoid suspicion definitely strip your efforts to help out the RFA of any noble nature your plans might have had, but it’s sure as hell better than just passively watching, and  _ way _ better than being the person who plans this whole kidnapping scheme in the first place. 

...and still, it bothers you. 

You can’t exactly say he’s been sweet to you, given how you got here, but it’s… close. Divorced from the context, _very_ sweet, at times; you feel like you can carry actual conversations with him now without running into constant noncommittal non-answers from him, and he’s actually been trying to be _funny_ _,_ to go along with you when you make flippant suggestions and observations. 

...you think that’s intentional, anyway. You don’t have a perfect grasp of why he does the things he does. 

And the thought comes to you, unbidden, and lingers: he’ll be crushed if he finds out you’ve been using him this whole time -- though _he's_ been using you for his plans. 

But it’s all you can do. 

So you… keep your eyes open. Try to learn as much as you can. And try not to think about what will happen if -- _when_ \-- you get out of here. 

And it works somewhat decently. 

Most of what you're picking up outside of the chatrooms is of dubious use. 

You learn that there are designations for some of the Mint Eye members. He does not have one; he is… special. You don't know if you're expected to get one, or if you, too, would somehow be special. 

You learn that he does sleep, sometimes, and yes, in the bed in the little room nearby] And yes, you _have_ woken up to an arm thrown over you, though only once. (And _that_ is an unnecessary complication to an already-fraught situation. You suppose you’re lucky it was only the one time; with how rapidly your pulse had spiked at the realization of how close he was and the fact that your heart-rate only slowed after you managed to squirm carefully out from his grasp to avoid waking him, it would be better for your health to not have a repeat of the incident.) 

Twice more, you've woken to the sight of him curled up tight underneath the covers, knees practically to his chest. By the time you made your way to the kitchens and back with breakfast he was awake -- except the last time. 

You can't say it was particularly thrilling to just sit and wait for him to wake up, but it might do the circles beneath his eyes some good to get some rest. 

“...should I start expecting breakfast in bed from now on?” he’d asked blearily, blinking at the oatmeal you’d set on the sheets beside him, banking on the hope that he wouldn’t knock it over when rising.

“Maybe if you care of yourself and get as much sleep as you're supposed to, I'll actually catch you in bed for once and have a chance to do this again.”

“I don’t need much sleep,” he’d protested, betrayed by the way he was rubbing at his eyes and frowning sleepily.

You’d shrugged at him from your position on the edge of the bed on the farther side from him, your own oatmeal in hand. “You can’t exactly get breakfast in bed if you’re not in bed, can you?”

He’d frowned more at that, but didn’t protest. This did not mean that the disagreement in semantics was over, however. In fact, you learned something else of interest from an offhand comment he made later that day after being reminded of your differing opinions on his sleeping habits, something you almost missed -- said that if he really needed sleep, he wouldn’t be sleeping  _ there _ , anyway.

Because that little room is not, in fact, his bedroom -- or, rather, while the room is his to use as he pleases, and while he has chosen to use it as somewhere to go for brief moments of respite, he has an _actual_ bedroom. 

“For when I'm not as busy with the work that needs doing,” he’d explained. “As it is, there’s too much at stake to waste time on needless sleep.”

“Can't imagine that gets much use then.” But -- how long has he been focusing on ‘work that needs doing’ that he had found it necessary to have that nearby room all done up for him, even before you came here to  _ help _ ? And how big  _ is  _ this place that it can allow that? Or, maybe, how important is he that he gets special treatment like that even if Mint Eye wouldn’t normally have so much extra space to toss around?

“Mmm. It doesn’t. But I can show you where it is when everything is in its place.”

You'd squinted suspiciously at him. “...I hope you don't expect me to be making any late-night visits there, boss.”

He'd laughed. “So you can find me when you get  _ your _ own, more permanent accommodations. …I'll rest more when there’s time for it. Satisfied?”

“That’s just step one in what’s seeming like a long list of ‘ways you need to treat yourself better,’ but it’s a start, so… yes.]. But wait -- I get a room? ...my  _ own _ room?” Is there space for  _ that  _ for everyone in paradise, or is this another perk of special treatment?

“Are you that eager to sleep somewhere else?” And you  _ thought  _ he was teasing there, but… the hint of a frown and a sudden wounded earnestness to his expression made you reevaluate that assessment. 

Oh no. You made a sudden switch to appeasement. “Oh, no, boss, I’m just curious, that’s all. Have you ever heard me complain? I’m sure I’ll still be coming by to get on your case about sleeping even if our rooms are apart. Maybe that’ll be the start of that breakfast in bed habit, huh?” 

He had nodded, seeming more content. ...not for the first time, you wondered whether endearing yourself to him might be working a bit too well. 

You are still frustratingly clueless about _far_ too many things, and still don’t have a plan of action -- no solid ideas on how to help beyond delaying him, no ideas for escape beyond making a dash for a random hallway and hoping for the best. 

Still, you get the chance to ask him something else that’s been on your mind over -- dinner? Late lunch? 

You’ve been up for a while, and it’s the first and only meal of the day that you’ve actually taken the trouble to pause your work and focus on, so it  _ seems _ like dinner. 

Rice porridge with vegetables, for the both of you. Pretty decent rice porridge, though. You suppose they can't really spring for anything elaborate when they're feeding so many mouths. 

You had to drag over boxes of files to act as makeshift seats and a table. Neither of you are using his chair after you protested that it was far too messy for you both to sit there and eat, and it’s just plain unfair for only one of you to take the chair. He suggested rock-paper-scissors to decide it, and when your eyes widened, he’d laughed and, even more surprisingly, agreed with your assessment and helped dragged over a box to sit on. 

“So,” you say, waving your spoon in the air, “there’s definitely chefs here.” That nervous girl you startled days ago has to be one, at least. “Or… a chef? Is it just the one?”

“We have chefs,” he confirms. “Multiple. Not many, but more than one.”

“Right, okay, that makes sense. Where do you get the ingredients for that? Is someone assigned to getting groceries, or do you outsource that? _Can_ you outsource that? Seems like someone making deliveries might take too much of an interest in us...”

“You can't order take-out, if that's what you're wondering. Why so curious?”

“I just…” You shrug, and take another spoonful as you mull over how to explain it. “There  _ seems  _ to be a lot of people, or… more than just a few, and we're planning to bring more, so what do they  _ do _ _? _ ”

“What's best.” You stare at him. He smirks, and somehow manages to make his next bite of porridge look smug. “...but everyone here is in paradise. They do what they are best suited to and help to bring others to happiness as well.”

“Uh...huh, so… the RFA will all have… roles to fill when they arrive that'll they'll be happy with and that will… support paradise?” 

“Mmh.” Another spoonful. This may be the most you've ever seen him eat at once, and it still isn't much. No wonder he's so skinny. Might be malnourished, if the eating habits you’ve observed aren’t a new thing, unless he's sneaking vitamins when you're not looking. ...well, it’s possible; he  _ does _ leave for brief periods in the mornings, all those times he comes back seeming markedly more bright-eyed than when he left.

“...what was my role going to be? If I had -- gone in. Not tried to back out of the apartment.”

“That’s decided by the savior. Whatever it was doesn't matter now; you work with me.” He tilts his head, and regards you over the rim of his bowl. “...I like this role for you.”

“I--” You have to glance away, finding his gaze a touch too… meaningful. “--like this role for me, too.” But you're not aiming for compliments here. 

You mull over this new information. You… doubt that they’d be truly content with anything they could be given here, if only because you’ve yet to meet anyone with an actual _name_ here, which does not bode well for how happy everyone already in paradise is.

The savior does as she pleases, and he does as the savior pleases but seems content to do so. Is that how it goes for the others?

But then, if not, why stay? What keeps _so many_ people here? _You_ are watched, and you have your own self-assigned duties to take care of before you can focus solely on getting out. But would they consider themselves happy? How did they come to be here, if not -- and especially if they _do_ , what brought them to the point that a functional cult seemed to provide the answers they lacked?

...it casts aspersions on  _ him _ , too. What brought him here? Did he have a hand in the creation of this paradise, or did he find himself in a position of power, relative as it is, after the fact? He certainly thinks of himself as happy here, but…

And then you draw in a slow breath. That’s a thought for later. For now, you have to play along. So you ask, “What's the rest of the RFA going to do?”

His answer is a touch mumbled by the bite he takes just as you ask. “As I said, the savior decides.”

“Right, right, of course. ...but don't you have any ideas? Suggestions, even, for some of them.” Something to give you a clue on how they’re viewed. How truly he buys into the vision of paradise, maybe.

He casts his eyes up to the ceiling. “...Zen might still perform,” he says at last. “We've got a stage.”

The next bite nearly misses your mouth as you lean forward in surprise. “We  _ do _ _? _ ”

“Of course. I'll give you the grand tour when we've finished preparing for the party.”

You give a low whistle in lieu of responding; as is usually the case, thinking about the possibility that you’ll actually get to that point and fail to help them or yourself is… an unpleasant prospect.

“Mmm, then how about… Jaehee? --oh, she's not going to take my job, is she?” You splay a hand across your chest in mock-concern. 

He gives an emphatic shake of his head. “No.”

“Oh, good, nice to have some job security. Let’s see, Jumin… has business savvy? That translates into something, right? Paradise still has business?”

He smirks. “Are you thinking he'll budget for those grocery trips you're so concerned about?”

“Well I  _ wasn't  _ but I am now and  _ absolutely  _ he should do that.” There's still a knot of guilt in your stomach -- you shouldn't be speaking so lightly about the roles that might be assigned to people targeted for kidnapped. But it's so  _ easy  _ to laugh along with him, particularly with how pleased he seems to be with successfully amusing you. 

He’s still scraping his bowl for the dregs of his dinner when you set your own bowl down on the table-box, finished. “You about done, boss? I guess we should take these back to the kitchen… Oh -- I think there's some wrappers left around the desk, hold on…” 

You hop up from the box and make your way to the monitors, beginning to root around for any trash you may have missed earlier. “Can't for the life of me think what Yoosung will do with his skills that'll make him happy.” And then you shake your head. “Well, not something that translates well to, ah, running paradise, but I don't mean to disparage the kid. What's his major again? If he's retained enough from classes, maybe that'll decide it.”

“Veterinary science,” he says. 

“No shit?” You hear him laugh behind you. “Huh. Well, I guess that could qualify him for… something. Let's get a cat as a mascot, then he can take care of it, yeah?”

“You think that the most fitting path for him, the path our savior deems to be what he has been lacking all his life, is as a  _ petsitter _ ?” You feel a measure of pride at hearing amusement in his voice, even if there’s probably some disbelief in it, too. 

“Hey, I'm sure I could come up with something better if given the time, but c'mon, boss, we're all about happiness, and what could be happier than cats?” And they're a much better avenue of conversation than his plans.

“If that's all you have in mind for him, wouldn't you think the cat-lover would be a better fit?” 

“Mmm, you're right.” He hums a smug little note. “Back to square one for Yoosung. And… you're already the resident hacker, that'd be too redundant, so I dunno, maybe Seven can--” And then you remember and you snap out of your joking tone. Right. Dangerous territory, too casual. Bad place to stray on autopilot. When you turn back, he's gripping his bowl with white-knuckled hands. 

“That traitor...” He has to draw in a breath to temper the venom in his voice, though it still shakes. “Has no place in paradise.” Oh, god, he does not look happy. 

“No, of course not, I--” What to say, what to say? You can fix this, right?

You set the assortment of trash you were holding down on the desk and take tentative steps forward.

“We don't  _ need _ him,” he whispers, words sharp and brittle. “He doesn't deserve the happiness of paradise.”

Another step. Back at the boxes now. He doesn't seem to be upset by you drawing nearer, just by, well -- thoughts of Seven.

He looks you in the eye as you take another step. Voice softer now, wavering but still bearing that sharp edge, he says, “The savior is so kind. She takes care of lost souls, brings them the happiness that's been denied to them. Even the ones that  _ he _ _ … _ ” His voice is hateful. “That he's led astray. Lied to.”

His hands shake. You can see his fingers clench tighter around the bowl he's holding. “We can still save them. We can make them get better. Heal them from the delusions he fed them. But he doesn’t deserve that kindness. He betrayed them all, he betrayed me--”

You're still meeting his gaze, but his eyes are unfocused now, and he draws in a breath that sounds like a gasp. Like a sob. “He's a liar, a filthy traitor, and--!”

You hesitate, and then, with movements shaky from trepidation, place your hands over his and try to ease his fingers away from the bowl. There's a moment of rigid unwillingness, and then he releases it to you. Without turning away, you settle down onto the box-table and set the bowl beside you, then reach for his hands again. 

“I--” You wait, but he doesn't continue, just… stares at your hands, holding his. 

“I’m…” Slowly, he raises his head. The focus is back, but his eyes are drained of the rage you’d seen there only moments before, and he just looks fragile. 

He stares at you for a long moment, and then -- pitches forwards, into you. 

You draw in a sharp breath of surprise, and he wraps his arms around you. You freeze, then slowly return the embrace. 

His fingers clench tightly into the fabric of your shirt and his breath comes out in little stuttery puffs against your collarbone. You raise a hand so that you can stroke his hair. He shudders, and his fingers tighten enough that you can feel his nails through your shirt, not painfully, but… there. 

Cautiously, you begin to comb your fingers through his hair, and his breathing evens out in half-measures until he's no longer trembling and his arms relax around you. 

After a long moment, he pulls back, and you still your movements. 

“I'm better than him,” he says at last, softly, pleadingly. He looks up at you, sad eyes staring into yours. 

Your breath catches, momentarily at a loss for words. Given who he is, it's -- absurd to want to comfort him beyond what will keep you safe. 

But you  _ do _ . 

He looks hurt and vulnerable, and you want to soothe him until the pain eases from his face and he no longer seems like a string pulled too taut, too close to fraying through.

“I'm sure you are, boss,” you say. “...you're better to me.”

The relief that spills across his face makes your heart ache, and he leans into you, pressing his cheek to your chest as he wraps his arms around you again. 

You fiddle with the ends of his hair, just to see if that's what he's after, if that would comfort him again, and he nuzzles into you. 

You don't get much else done that night, just… steady him. 

The next morning brings still more surprises, as you find yourself taking a walk with him in what is rapidly becoming… a really nice-looking part of the complex. 

There are actual windows here. And sunlight. Why does he have a workspace down in the dark, again?

It was a fairly sudden development -- he’d popped out for a little while, as has become normal, but when he came back, he brought new information, and informed you of the change in plans. Apparently, he's going off to work on a security system, and you are… not. No, you've got… a visit to make. 

With the savior. 

“Fill me in, boss. What kind of security system needs you to work on it in-person?” You're keeping pace with him, which is a little surprising, given how much time you're spending just looking around, trying to take in new sights as they fall out of view. 

“Mmm, I don't  _ need _ to work on it quite that close, but I'd prefer to be there to maintain a strong connection with it, and monitor it.” His lips quirk up. “For luck, I suppose. It's…sensitive.”

“Sensitive enough that you don't want me there to distract you?”

He actually stops so he can look at you, and you stumble a step in your haste to stop as suddenly. You think for a moment that something else has caught his attention, but there's just a long stretch of hallway before you and no one else around, so you meet his gaze. 

There's something soft in his expression. “I’d gladly bring you along,” he says, and he reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering against your skin before he pulls away. “...but the savior would like to spend time with you.” And then, softer, “and this way, we don't have to be apart any longer than necessary.”

Despite yourself, you can feel your face heat up. “...well boss, I’m flattered.”

His smile grows fonder. He begins walking again, and you follow in step. “But yes,” he says, “it  _ is _ delicate.”

“How delicate?”

“Well, it's a bomb, so… delicate enough.” He chuckles, but you're already alarmed. 

“A  _ bomb _ ?” Your steps falter, and you trip over yourself to keep pace with him again. “I -- I -- I didn't think we were gonna  _ blow people up _ , I thought we were bringing them here, I --”

“Shhh.” He stops again, pressing a finger to your lips. “We _are_ bringing them here. The bomb is just a… precaution. A deterrent, if you will. No one will get hurt. This will make sure of it. You understand?”

He waits until you nod weakly to take his finger away. “Good. Now… we're just about there.”

He takes your hand to lead you now. If you  _ are _ near, the hand-holding definitely isn't necessary, but… it feels anchoring, somehow. Even if he's the reason why you're in need of anchoring in the first place.

But -- wow. As soon as you round the corner you can see why the savior has chosen this place to meet, and you're in awe even before you step out the glass doors and into the most magnificent garden you have ever seen. 

“Oh… my god,” you murmur. It's unreal how beautiful this is -- more colors than you've ever seen in one place, the intermingling fragrances of the blossoms heady enough that you think you might grow dizzy if you stay too long. 

Together, the pair of you wind through brick pathways that meander past bushes heavy with deeply blooming flowers. Roses seem to be a particular favorite here, blooming in a myriad of different colors and varieties. 

You reach to brush your fingers against some petals as you pass, and you could swear their scent lingers on you even from that brief touch. 

And then, there she is. 

There is a trellis of bright-blooming wisteria above the point where the pathway widens to a circular area, and this is where the savior is seated at a table, delicately sipping tea. There is an empty seat just across from her, where you assume you are meant to sit, in time.

Her attire is not so elaborate today, though she is no less elegant -- no less imposing -- in her sundress than she is in her formal robes. She makes a fitting picture, framed against the flowers. 

“My savior.” His voice is a low, reverent murmur, and he presses a hand to his chest. 

She nods in response, and even this simple motion seems graceful coming from her. 

“How wonderful to see you both. I trust the morning finds you well?” she asks. 

“Very well, savior,” he says, and you echo him in a quiet, hesitant murmur. Her eyes wander from him to you, and you feel rooted to the spot. 

“You know what you are to do?” she asks -- addressing him, you're sure, but still looking at you. 

He doesn't seem to notice, or at least, if he does, he makes no indication of it. “I do. I am eager to perform the work ahead of me. Soon their defenses will be down and we will be one step closer to bringing them to salvation.”

“Wonderful. I have every confidence in you,” she says warmly, and he practically beams at these words -- though he does then glance over at you, and she does not miss this. A gentle smile graces her face. “They will be safe with me,” she says softly, and he ducks his head a little. 

“Of course,” he says. “There is nowhere safer.”

“Return to us soon,” she says. 

“For eternal paradise,” he murmurs, and does that little almost-bow again. You find yourself released from his grasp, though his fingers linger against your palm as if reluctant to pull away, but then he nods and steps back, breaking the contact. You are a little regretful of the loss. 

You meet his eye before he turns away to leave and see the faintest hint of a smile cross his face, and then he is gone. 

And it's just you and her. 

For a moment, you stand in place, unsure what to do, but she beckons you nearer with a wave of her hand. “Oh, don’t be shy, come and sit,” she says.

You do, but you're sure she can see stiffness in your movements when you pull out the chair and take a seat. 

“Are you nervous?” she asks. You twist your fingers together, trying to will yourself to appear relaxed. She laughs before you have a chance to speak, a high, sweet sound, and says, “There's no need for that.”

The hell there isn't. But you nod as if merely bashful. 

“How are you settling into our paradise?” 

Her gaze remains on you, curious but intense, and you nod slowly. “Well enough, I think. I'm… no longer getting lost. And I think I'm used to the routine enough that I've been far more helpful.” Unfortunately. 

She hums a contented note. “It's regretful that you have found yourself among us at such a busy time; there is much that you have yet to see, and much that I know you would delight in, but you have not been afforded the time to do so. Your diligence is greatly appreciated -- indeed, the work you are doing is invaluable -- but it's a shame we've had to delay so much of your experience.”

“I'm just… happy to help,” you say lamely. 

She takes a sip of tea, but when she sets her cup down, she shakes her head. “Forgive me.” Her voice is wry. “I have not had guests in some time, and it appears I have been so distracted by your presence that I forgot myself. Tea?”

“Oh… thank you, but that's not necessary,” you begin, but she's already rising and skirting around the table. 

When she pauses at your side, she considers you for a moment, examining you. “These new clothes suit you,” she says at last. “He seemed pleased with the chance to provide you with these at last, and I can see why.”

She reaches for the teapot at the center of the table, and as she begins to fill your cup, you are suddenly grateful that you chose an outfit with more _modest_ pieces. Floral and lacy; maybe she's a fan of that, too. 

She is… close. Very close. When she pours the tea, her arm brushes yours repeatedly, and you catch a hint of her perfume. You can't tell exactly what it is -- there's vanilla there, you think? And something else, something sweet but not overmuch. Peach? Or… maybe not. Either way, its rich and almost… creamy in how smooth and sweet it is. It's heady, like the intermingling floral scents in the garden pathways, but doesn't seem at odds with it. 

You find yourself watching her instead of the tea, and so you can't pretend you weren't staring when her eyes skirt to you. 

“You know,” she says, tone light, “most would consider this an honor.”

Ah. Right. She is the savior, after all. You hasten to think of something to say, a sufficient apology for your oversight, but she laughs as she sets the teapot down. 

“Don’t worry,” she says, and she runs a hand through your hair. Her touch is light, delicate, and she combs through the strands with gentle purpose. “You don’t have to trouble yourself. It would be unkind to offer and then demand thanks, hmm?”

She works her way through your hair until her hand comes to rest at your neck and lingers, fingers toying with the wispy strands of hair there as she says, “your initiation is soon, and the party will follow close behind, and you will have time to rest at last. Are you frightened?”

And even if you lied, you think she might be able to feel how your pulse sped up at her words, so you give a slow nod. 

She hums a note. “Yes, it's daunting to think how close you are to such perfect happiness at last, isn't it? An end to the misery that has plagued you… It's natural to hesitate before this possibility when it has long been denied you. But we will be here to guide you every step of the way. You need not fear faltering.” Her nails scrape gently against your skin, almost soothingly if not for, well -- your general discomfort. “I'm sure you will be perfectly at ease here even when your duties with the party are fulfilled. And I look forward to getting to know you in the days to come. Perhaps you will find your happiness through working _closely_ together.”

She angles her head, and the sunlight catches in her hair, enhancing the halo effect of it. So bright, and still you shiver. 

She pulls away after smoothing down your hair one last time, and returns to her seat. 

You focus on the tea in front of you so you can at least pretend that her gaze isn't fixed on you. It's -- a very lovely shade of amber but your nerves are so high that you can't register the taste of it in your mouth. 

And for a while, you both just sit in silence, drinking tea. She seems to find more comfort in the quiet than you do, looking perfectly relaxed. 

When you've drained your second cup of tea, she speaks up. 

“You know,” she says, “you _do_ look even lovelier in the light,” she says. “Perhaps you would care to take a walk through the gardens with me? Take in some of the sunlight.”

And what are you to do but say yes?

She guides you to the path opposite the one you came from, pace slow and leisurely, perfect for taking it all in, if only you could dispel some of this nervousness and focus on the sights to see.

“Look,” she says, indicating roses a shade of rich blue. “Beautiful, aren't they?” She traces over the outer petals, then runs her fingers down the stem to rest over a thumb. “Guarded, but beautiful.”

“How do you get them to grow in that color?” you ask. 

“Patience,” she says, and nods in a way that you assume means it's time to move on, “and nurturing.”

She makes little comments as you continue, pointing out particularly lovely or unusual blooms -- enough to keep the bubbles of silence down to only a few moments, but not enough to truly occupy your thoughts. 

There's too much to worry about -- bombs and plans and parties -- and they plague you too much not to think of them, and finally you blurt, “Why is he so affected by that hacker?” 

You don’t bother clarifying. You’re not sure you should have even risked it in the first place. 

She tilts her head. “Why do you  ask me and not him? Or... do you ask what he has already said he will not answer?” Her tone barely changes, if at all, but suddenly you feel laid bare, placed before the glare of a spotlight. 

You fumble with your words. “I don't -- want to upset him. Of course. But I don't always know what to ask, I don’t always know what's going to upset him, except… that. The other hacker. That always upsets him. And…” You offer a nervous smile and twist your fingers together, feigning interest in the new blooms you pass -- violets? -- in the hopes that this will at least build the illusion of confidence. “We have -- the endless party to prepare for, and I’d like to do my part as best I can. I don’t want to be ignorant of anything that might be important to know for that, but I… don’t want to strain him by forcing him to confront what’s obviously upsetting him.”

“Mmm… yes, Saeran can be… temperamental. Not without reason, but…” She pauses to examine a large orange rose, dipping her fingers into the petals. “I imagine he may well become... emotional, if pressed on this.”

There is, at first, only relief that she hasn't found your explanation worthy of further inquiry, but then her words hit you, and your next breath stutters in your throat. 

“ _ Saeran? _ ”

She gives you a look of mild surprise, turning away from the blossom to regard you. “You didn’t know?” And then she inclines her head. “I suppose it isn’t too surprising. He is… not fond of his name.” Her expression is sorrowful, if still prettily composed.

“I… see.” You don't know what else to say. “No, he didn't tell me.” 

“Mmm, it might be best to remain calling him… whatever you used before, then. If he hadn't told you already…” She trails off meaningfully. 

“Of course,” you say. It feels -- ill-gained. You don't know if he ever planned to tell you, or if you would have learned this eventually, but now you have a name to put to him besides just boss and that's -- well -- not something you were expecting. 

“Perhaps you can ask him about this, and about the intensity of his feelings regarding the hacker.” She rests her chin on the back of her hand. “But… after the party?” It’s phrased like it’s a question, though you know it’s not.

“...of course, my savior.” So you won't get an answer to this question, much as the curiosity burns at you. “But then, if he -- if… Saeran… hates the hacker so much, why focus on the RFA?” Connections? Influence? Jumin is the son of a business magnate, probably worth an absurd amount of money -- but the rest of them? 

“They are… particularly wounded.” She releases the bloom,and a petal comes with it. She clicks her tongue, rolling the petal between her fingers. “Lost. If we don't help them now, I fear that they may remain tangled in doubts forever.” She pinches the petal tightly suddenly, and when she lets it go, it falls crushed from her fingers. 

That's… an answer that doesn't manage to answer anything. You hesitate, then ask the question at the heart of everything. 

“Why do you do this?” The frustration you feel bleeds into your voice, and you continue in the hopes that this will amend that. “You… care for people. Heal hurt. You go to such lengths to find lost people --  _ why _ ?”

And she laughs. 

You've never heard someone with a bell-like voice until you met her. Clear and bright and musical -- and distant. “My dear, what else would I do?” She reaches to place a hand at your face, thumb ar your jaw and fingers splayed against your cheek. “If you see someone in need, don't you ache to do something?” She brushes against your cheekbone in a motion that is probably meant to be comforting. “Have you not wished desperately for a guiding hand when you were lost?”

There is amusement in her gaze -- even, perhaps, affection -- which you suppose you should be grateful for. Seems safer than the alternative. But you don't  _ want _ to be coddled. Not here, not like this.

“...yes,” you say at last. “I understand.”

Her smile is warm. “I'm glad. But I am always here to help if you have any more questions. [We wouldn't want you to feel lost in paradises.”

“Thank you for your kindness, my savior.” Your heart thuds hollowly in your chest.

“Now,” she says, “have you anything else to ask, or would you care to see more of the gardens?”

And you can’t imagine you’ll get a satisfying answer to any of the other questions that plague you -- why me, why a bomb, why, why, why? -- and so you nod. 

When he returns, he finds you still winding through the gardens, by a wall of swaying sunflowers this time, and your breath catches as he comes into view. 

“It is done, my savior.” You wonder idly if you should have been making those half-bows like he does this whole time, but you can't focus long enough on this thought to care. 

He has a  _ name _ . 

Saeran _.  _ Not your nameless boss. 

It makes him -- not more real, exactly, because you're not sure you've fully processed it, but it definitely changes  _ something _ . 

You just… don't know how much yet. 

And you have, it seems, missed out on some of his report, because when you snap back into focus, he's already begun to explain how it went. 

“--notice a thing, and went off without a single hiccup. By the time they realize anything has changed, it will be too late; they'll have no chance to counter the security system, and the extraction will be unexpected and seamless.”

At some point, he'd come closer, and she places one hand on his shoulder. “ _Very_ good,” she praises, “I would expect nothing less from you. And the connection is still stable from here?”

He nods, and she gives him a warm smile. 

And now she steps back and he comes to stand beside you. 

The savior clasps her hands together. “Now, much as I cherish the time I am able to spend with you, there is work to be done.”

What  _ does _ she do when she’s not instructing him, or… examining you? But, this is a clear dismissal. You incline your head when he does, this time.

And that's that. 

You start off in silence through garden pathways that you’ve already grown sick of. Almost immediately, his hand brushes against yours once, twice, three times, and you glance over at him. Has he been made shy by the savior’s compliments? He had no trouble taking your hand earlier. You flex your fingers against his, and this seems to give him the go-ahead to lace your fingers with his. 

You're still radiating nervous energy. “I'm… glad it went well,” you say. Better to talk than be left in silence with tumultuous thoughts. “And that you're back.”

He hums a contented note. “I’ll show you the new feed when we return. And…” he says, “the savior seems pleased with you. Maybe... we could spend time together like this soon.”

You force yourself to smile, and his hand tightens around yours. 

You and Saeran and the savior. What a picture that would make. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the boy is touch-starved and affection-starved and he’s getting a sudden influx of both so while mc is thinking of escape routes, saeran is living his life like a tegan and sara song  
> but as always there’s more characterization goin on that’s not seen with this perspective and i’m endlessly worried that this won’t be as obvious as i wanted so if u ever wanna hear me babble endlessly abt why i have saeran do the things he does hmu i’m always ready to talk abt the boy
> 
> (and the care of blue roses may take Patience and Nurturing but they also require Watering With Blue Dye, i know how this works)
> 
> also… hey……… last chapter i said it was my longest one and it was 4998 words but before this chapter the word count was 18,960… and now it’s 29,050…………… this was a long-ass chapter and now i am Tired
> 
> also also i very much meant to respond to the lovely comments i got but as soon as i finished the last chapter i focused on this one and i ended up not… doing that, haha……… but i read them and i appreciate them and i appreciate you, thank you for reading!! i love u all


	8. you probably should've expected a breaking and entering wouldn't go well, but you've always been an optimist

God, you can't believe he's going in through the window. 

He'd explained it calmly enough, said this was the best way to get him into the apartment without alerting her or putting him in view of the camera -- which you're here to monitor. His laptop, balanced in your lap, displays a feed of the hallway camera, just in case someone comes up the elevator or she tries to run. 

You hunch your shoulders in discomfort at that thought, adjusting the headset and slouching further against the half-wall. 

All clear so far. Not even a neighbor popping out for groceries as of yet, and a quick glance at the screen confirms that this hasn't changed in the seconds since you last looked. 

The laptop is locked, of course. Useable, but only for the use he wants. No way to access anything but the camera feed it's currently displaying, and you imagine that even if you managed to get it away from the feed, you'd find most other functions unavailable to you. It's _gotta_ be connected to the internet, or…some security-camera-specific equivalent for you to see inside the building in real-time without being physically hooked into its system, but from what you've seen of the laptop as he was setting it up, there's nothing you can _do_ with that. No way to contact anyone, try to get help. A special interface made just for you in mind. To limit distractions, he'd said. 

He did seem to think it was a  _ little  _ bit funny when you'd sighed and asked him how you were meant to go on if he kept restricting your access to games, enough to promise that there would be time for that after the necessary work has been done, so he doesn't appear to be overly concerned with the possibility that you'd try to use it to get help. In fact, you get the sense that this mindset is less out of his confidence in the way he's worked over the laptop, although he's surely got that, and more to do with thinking that you wouldn't try to escape even if you were given the chance. 

This is, instead -- his version of help. Keeping you on track so you can get everything done efficiently and celebrate later. Considerate, in a weird, misguided way.

And now… well, your role is mostly just precautionary, anyway. Encouragement. ...someone to make sure the rope stays secure. 

You slide the laptop off your lap and twist to peer over the edge of the building, and you're met with the sight of him slowly descending down the rope, maybe about halfway there.  

“How's it hanging, boss?” you ask through your mic. 

“Ha ha,” comes the sardonic response from your headset. “Everything clear?”

“You’re golden, boss.” 

Even from here, you can see him smirk, and you shake your head at how confident he is about doing this. 

Only moments ago, he was securing the rope and giving it experimental tugs and all you could think about was how easy it would be for something to go wrong, for the rope to come untied, and then  _ splat,  _ there he goes, a Boss-pancake on the sidewalk. 

You'd questioned him on this, but he laughed off your doubts, unshaken by the points you'd brought up, reminding him how dangerous something like this was. Before he'd begun to descend, he'd smoothed down your hair. 

“Don't worry,” he'd murmured, “I'll be standing on solid ground before you know it.” And down he went. 

...had you really been so worried that he could see it on your face?

That's -- well -- absurd, frankly, given that he's the source of a great many of your current problems, and really, since you  _ still  _ haven't seen any sign of anyone else at Mint Eye doing the things he does, if he did fall -- if he was out of the way -- you're not sure anyone left could track you down again like he could, so that would nip this whole kidnapping thing in the bud real quick. 

But even with that in mind, there's a knot of fear in your stomach as you watch him. 

So you ease away from the ledge and settle back comfortably again, pulling the laptop closer and returning your attention to the camera feed. 

Still nothing.

He'd warned you that the redheaded hacker might show up, whether or not he manages to figure out that Saeran is here now -- he and that girl seem to have grown close in the past few days. Friends, certainly, and the way their flirtations are going, there's likely feelings of a deeper nature on at least one side -- so you're just… the early warning system. Fun. But, at the moment, there's nothing, no movement at all. 

It's actually kind of nice up here, if you ignore the reason why you're on the roof in the first place, as well as the slightly uncomfortable position you've settled into, pressed against the brick half-wall. Breezy. Moderate. Nice picnic weather. Maybe you'll start having picnics after this is all over. You deserve nice things like that.

Suddenly, the earpiece crackles. “I’m here,” he murmurs, and before you have the chance to respond, you're flinching as you hear the sound of breaking glass -- both below you and through your headset. 

“Ah, that was noisier than I'd intended. I'd meant to be quiet, to not make a sound, but… oops.” And he chuckles. 

Damn it boss, he really didn't think that would be noisy? As he continues, you realize that no, this is just his way of being polite. You're too on-edge to process that at first. 

“Hey, miss, just stay there. You’ll hurt your feet if you step on glass. I'm climbing over the window.” God, that sweet voice. Laying out what he's doing so calmly, as if it'll stop her from panicking. 

“Hello,” he greets at last. “You know who I am?”

She must say something then -- confirmation of some sort -- because you don't catch her voice, but you hear him say, “Smart lady. You might be able to understand me then.” You scoff. Condescending ass. You can hear the faint crunching of glass -- it must be  _ everywhere  _ for the mic to pick it up -- and then, “Wow, it feels so strange to see it like this. Do you know that? I'm the one who first talked to you about that missing phone. I left that strange message a couple days ago… And I'm the one who sent that email.” Oh, so he admits his message was strange  _ now _ ? He’d seemed to find it fine before, but if he  _ knew _ it was sketchy, why the hell did he send it in the first place? Asshole.

His tone turns curious. “How was the email I sent? It’s an invitation. Our paradise, where everyone is happy. Magenta of hopes and dreams.” His voice actually does go kind of dreamy there. Is she -- not speaking out of shock, or can you just not hear her? “I've come to take you there… Don't worry.” Ah. Maybe she _is_ panicking now, and you're still only hearing his words. “The RFA is only filled with false hope. Especially those men named V and Luciel -- they're liars.” You almost roll your eyes at this. It took you a week to wrangle that information out of him and he's just dumping it on her the moment they meet? Rude. “I will explain everything once we get to Magenta.” He pauses. Is that your cue? But no, now he's talking again.  

“It’s not like this place that's nothing but lies. Once you get there, you will have true peace of mind. You may not understand this now…” And his voice, already soft, soothing, becomes gentler still. “But this is all for us to live in heaven. You will be happy in the end too.” You hear her voice faintly. There's the slight sound of glass crunching underfoot, and then he chuckles softly. “Of course. You must be like me, seeing your eyes shaking like that. I know… I know how hard it's been. All your pain will go away if you come with me. ” 

And shit, that  _ is _ your cue, isn't it? A sign that you'll be needed soon, anyway. You tense up, ready to move -- to snatch up everything and book it to the elevator, or to grab the rope if need be. 

As you do, you hear him murmur a promise: “I'll make a special exception for you and tell the Savior how good you are.”

He has  _ got  _ to be kidding. Lousy little --

And then movement on the screen catches your eye. Oh, god. the elevator doors are opening. It's  _ him _ . 

“Boss,” you cry, watching as the hacker bounds across the hallway, balancing a laptop in his arms and typing furiously with one hand as he moves. “It's him--”

Faintly, you hear a new voice, sounding automated, announcing, “The special security system has been act- act- act- act- act…” and Saeran asks, “What is this...?” 

“Seven -- he's here!” you cry, finally forcing the words out past your disbelief.

Your warning is ineffective. By the time the last word leaves your lips, you hear, “the special security system has been deactivated,” and Seven is at the door. 

“No way,” Saeran whispers, but it's less disbelief you hear and more of something that sounds like  _ despair. _

And then -- things seem to happen very quickly, and yet achingly, painfully slow. You watch Seven jolt as the door opens, pausing just on the threshold, and what seemed to be a cheerful expression quickly drops from his face.  _ React, respond, get out of there, _ you want to cry,  _ why isn't he trying to escape?  _ And then Seven hurries in. 

The door is left open. You can't see inside. Your pulse is racing at the words you're hearing with no visual to put to them. 

And then there's a sharp intake of breathe, a word breathed out in soft horror. “Shit.”

“Boss--” 

But in the moment you cry out, he's gotten over his shock, spitting out, “Why? Why are you here?! I thought I could finally hurt you like you deserve…!”

You hear the girl gasp, much clearer than any of her words have been, and realize that she must be close to Saeran now. You can't rule out the reason for that being voluntary, but you'd bet your money on Saeran being the reason for that. 

And you hear the hacker for the first time. It's only little bits and pieces since he's not close enough to the headset for you to pick up the entirety of what he's saying, but you can hear Seven chattering away, sounding cheerful as ever, hear his remarks about how rude Saeran is but smart for covering his face, hear his disbelief that Saeran broke the window as Seven then chastises him for it. You think you hear him say Saeran should ‘let her go,’ so Saeran must be using the girl as a hostage right now. 

You are not prepared for Saeran’s next words.

“Even now… all you do is just  _ ruin my life _ …” And the  _ agony  _ in his words makes your eyes widen. He doesn't even seem to be speaking to Seven, just… reacting. And his reaction is  _ pain _ , raw and ragged. 

Seven says something else, tone confused and Saeran’s voice takes on even more of an edge -- bitter, the rawness crackling out into jagged spikes of vitriol. God, he sounds like he's about to go off the edge. “You probably don't know. I'm sure you've long forgotten about me.”

Your heart skips a beat. They  _ know  _ each other? You knew Saeran resented Seven, that he saw the other hacker as a traitor, but this is the first confirmation you've gotten that this is, at least in Saeran’s mind, more than a one-sided relationship. Seven says something, and then Saeran scoffs. “You still don't know? Fine.” There's a rustling sound, and you don't understand until his voice comes through a touch clearer. He must have removed his mask. His next words are almost languid. “I guess now you do.”

“Seven, do you know him?” And that's the girl, words coming through clear as can be through the headset for the first time. 

Seven’s voice is faltering when he replies, and Saeran lets out a breathy, unhappy laugh. 

“I prayed so that I wouldn't meet you,you know that?” He laughs again, a sound entirely devoid of any mirth .  “Because I knew that seeing you would remind me of my pathetic life…!”

Something in you twists at the pain in his voice, and at anything you can conjure up that he might mean.

You hear glass again, and then Seven’s voice, slightly louder. “What… what happened?” He is aghast, and then he is desperate. “Why are you…! Why are you here?! You're Saeran, right…?”

Your heart seems to stop at hearing that name said aloud again, and by  _ him _ .

“Don't call me that.” Saeran’s voice is a harsh whisper. “You don't deserve to say that name.”

“You're the one who copied my algorithm…? God…” There’s a ragged sigh, and then Seven’s voice takes on some of the edge that Saeran has. “When did you learn to hack?! Who taught you?” 

His earlier softness is gone. “Shut  _ up! _ ” Saeran screams the command, loud enough that you wince and briefly pull the headset away, just an inch or so, in case he's going to continue at this volume, but your intense need to know what's going on down there makes you return it after mere seconds.

Seven, too, seems dismayed. “Why are you doing this!? Rika told me that you…”

Saeran drags in a harsh, quick breath. “You… don't you dare say that name.”

“What?” Seven sounds taken aback. 

“Don't talk like you know anything, you traitor,” Saeran hisses. “All the names you spit out will be contaminated, so shut up.”

“Saeran… why are you doing this now? Tell me!” Seven’s words rasp. “Something bad happened, right? That's why you're here?” 

And you clasp your hands over the earphones, pressing them as close as possible to your ears as you can, hoping for an answer, hoping you can hear it. 

“But Rika would never have lied to me…!” You almost miss this remark as Seven grows softer, disbelieving. 

A slight exhale, a huff of disgust. “You're the one lying. I can tell, don't pretend you don't know.”

“I'm not lying!” Seven cries. 

“You're not?” Saeran's tone is sardonic. “That promise about protecting me, about being together, all lies… Even your last promise when you told me that we will be happy after stating that hellish place was a lie. I remember all of them. I know that you changed your name to Luciel to get rid of me. Don't tell me you don't remember.”

“That… I had no choice! It's all too much to explain now…” And, for some reason, you feel -- irritated. What explanation could take so long that no explanation is better? Saeran is obviously  _ wounded  _ over this, and you'd expected -- well -- exaggeration of Seven’s sins, you supposed. Something less personal than all this sounds. Something that didn't make you believe it.

“Shut up!” Saeran bites the words out with a derisive snort. “What do you mean you have no choice…? Haha… Eat those pathetic lies of yours.” His laugh is scornful. “You're uncontrollable. Covering lies with more lies…” There's a pause, and when he speaks again, he sounds more sure of himself. “I knew you were lowly. My savior was right.”

“Saeran, I don't know what people told you… But I thought you were doing well. I asked Rika to see a photo of you laughing.” He is pleading. “I knew I couldn't meet you, but I always prayed for you to be happy…”

“Shut up! I don't want to hear it. Stop lying!” Saeran’s voice shakes. 

“First… let her go,  and then let's talk. Please? Let's take care of this together… You hate me right now, right? She has nothing to do with this.” You have to wonder what Seven thinks ‘this’ is.

“You're getting this wrong. I brought her here, so she's mine.” You don't like the tone he's taking, much less the words themselves. Your fingers go white-knuckled on the headset imagining the expression he must have right now -- sneering but no longer wild, cold as he zeroes in on his hate, like he gets when he'd have fits of fury back in Mint Eye. 

“Boss,” you whisper, hoping his next words will sound more grounded. 

“There's no reason to involve her in this! Don't do something to her because of me… Please…!” And this is a  _ new _ type of desperation.

“Hmm,” Saeran hums, somehow managing to pack the sound with concentrated smugness, “do you have feelings for this girl or something?”

He's definitely toying with Seven. “ _ Boss, _ ” you whisper more fiercely, but there's no response. It’s been -- not discussed, exactly, not in detail, but you’ve both acknowledged that there’s something there. For Saeran to be bringing this up now... well, he’s certainly making it clear that this is personal for him, if it wasn’t blatantly obvious already. 

“...even if I do, it's useless.” It is a voice of despair, and Saeran catches this as easily as you do. 

“So you  _ do  _ have feelings for her.” Saeran laughs. “I can read everything on your mind, you know. So, I can just do whatever I want to this girl to make you suffer, right?”

“Let me go!” the girl cries, but Saeran only murmurs, “don't fight. You don't want him to see anything inappropriate, do you?”

“God,” you mutter just as Seven cries, “stay still!” Softer, desperately, he continues, pleading, “don't move. It's dangerous.”

“How will I play with you?” He muses. “If you want to be officially inducted, you'll have to go through training… oh, there are so many possibilities…”

Your stomach turns. “Jesus  _ christ _ , boss…!” Shamefully, you know that a large part of your revulsion is the thought of  _ training _ , and wondering if this still lies ahead for you.

“Saeran… just take me instead!” Seven cries. 

“Boss,” you whisper, trying to think of what you want to say, trying to tread carefully. “I don't think this is going to work out how we wanted.” Just -- let her go and give this up, he doesn't want Seven but there's no way he can get out of there with her now, why won't he just  _ go _ ?

And then there's a beep. “A stranger has been located.”

Saeran’s voice is harsh. “What is that saying?” But he knows already, you think. 

“The special security system,” Seven breathes. “I restarted it and it's only starting to work now…”

“Sensed location of stranger,” the security system chirps. “Adjusting target…”

“It's sensing you as a stranger, Saeran.” The implication hangs heavy in Seven’s words. Saeran’s explanation of just what this security system will do when it senses strangers -- all the things he said with the assumption that he could tamper with it and defang it, at least when it came to his own safety, now ring in your mind with the knowledge that it’s rearing its head, ready to attack.

“The whole place will explode if we stay like this. Get out of here!” This, too, is another plea. He wants Saeran to stay safe, or he just wants to live? You'd ponder this more, except you're struck with the intense feeling of the same. You want -- 

“Backing up all information… After the backup is complete, the bomb will be activated. 20 seconds left…”

You want him to live. 

“We’ll all die if we don't get out,” Seven says, surprisingly steadily, given the situation. 

“Shit…!” But though Saeran doesn't sound  _ overjoyed  _ at this news, he also doesn't seem to be in a hurry to leave, lingering where he is. Caught up in his plans? But he  _ can't  _ be, not right now. 

“Boss--” You clutch your headset with desperate hands. “Get  _ out  _ of there!”

“Right now!” Seven shouts. 

And Saeran cries out as if in pain. 

You hear the crunching of glass again, and then Seven’s relieved voice, “Good…! Come here.” 

“10 seconds… 9 seconds…” 

The security system continues its cheery countdown, and through this, Seven’s voice is a barely audible murmur. “Saeran… why did we have to meet like this…?”

“Shit…” Saeran mutters, sounding  _ lost.   _

“Boss, please,” you plead, hearing it count down to 6 seconds, then 5, “you'll die, get out, please, boss--” you continue your litany as Saeran shouts, “get out! You'll die like this!”

“Shit… shit…!” And then, to your relief, he says, “I won't forgive you next time… I'll get payback for everything including today!” 

And your knees go weak with relief as you hear footsteps and the security system fading quieter and quieter, “sensing stranger’s movement… readjusting target… readjusting… readjusting…” And then you can no longer hear it, just his heavy footfalls. 

You collapse onto your knees as the thought sinks in. He's alive. He's out. He's alive. 

“S--” And then you cut yourself off. You've almost said his name on impulse, so caught up in hearing it repeated. “Boss,” you say again, hoping he won't notice, “where are you?” You hear muttering, agitating and continuous, as well as his footsteps. You grow worried. “Boss, let me come to you, alright?”

There's the metallic creak of a door opening from your headset, and your worries grow. You close the laptop and stand, cradling it carefully in your arms. “...boss?”

“Stairs,” he says, nearly cutting off the simple epithet.

“--be right there!”

You rush to the door to the stairs, laptop still carefully secured in your arms. He begins to mutter again with the hint of an echo from the stairwell, now. 

You -- don't know why you're rushing to him as if afraid he'll leave you here, and at this thought, you pause at the top of the stairwell, fingers resting lightly on the bar of the door. 

This wasn't even the original plan. 

Well, of course  _ failing  _ wasn't part of the plan, but -- he was going to have you help him hoist her up to the roof, of all things, and then him after -- or simultaneously, depending on how well or  _ un _ well his persuasions went -- so that neither of them would be seen on the camera. 

You could have dropped him if he'd come up the rope, you realize. He didn't seem to try to get her to follow him when he left, so he wouldn't have tried it when going up the rope either, and you could have untethered the rope and let him fall and put a stop to all these kidnapping plans right here. 

And then you hear his muttering take on a more ragged edge and your fingers close over the bar. 

You wouldn't have done it. You realize that now, too. If he'd have tried to come up, you would have pulled with all your might and your worry would not have eased until he was safe on solid ground once more. 

You  _ want  _ him to be alive. To be safe. And that's a hell of a thing to realize. 

You push against the bar of the door at last, slowly opening it, just as you hear the footsteps from your headset coinciding with what you hear without them. You only make it to the first stairwell before he is standing in front of you. You stop, stilled by his expression as he stares wild-eyed at you. Finally, he steps closer and grasps your wrist in an iron grip. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, pulling you with him as you descend the stairs. 

Your footsteps falter a bit, skipping slightly with the effort of keeping pace with him. “The cameras in the lobby,” you start, and even at this angle, you can see his mouth twist sharply down, and his grip on you tightens painfully. 

“I can keep him from stopping us,” he growls.  

“Of -- course,” you say. You can't think of anything else to add, anything that would reassure him that you hadn't meant to suggest otherwise, you were just  _ \-- worried.  _

Worried that he'll be caught. Which is what you've wanted this whole time, all these long weeks of working with him. But you think of him confronting Seven again and you just… ache. 

When you reach the door to the first floor, he holds out a hand. “Give it here.” 

You hand over the laptop, and he lets go of you so that he can open it up and bring up a program -- ah, so that complicated series of buttons is what finally dismisses the camera feed -- and begin typing. It's rapid at first, then more like chicken pecking, waiting for a response before continuing. 

You are grateful for the reprieve, taking the chance to lean against the wall until your breathing steadies. That winded you more than you'd like to admit. 

Finally, he closes the laptop. “He’ll just see looped footage for the next ten minutes.” The look he gives you makes you think he's daring you to challenge him. 

All you manage to say -- too much, still, but nervousness makes it hard to stay completely silent -- is, “that's… good.” His eyes still narrow unhappily. 

He shifts the laptop so he's cradling it in one arm and places his other hand on your back as he opens the door, urging you forward. You suppose this does look less suspicious than if he'd taken hold of your wrist again. 

You can feel his and tremble against you as you move forward, out the lobby. 

You can't help but glance up at where you think the camera might be, based on the angle of the feed you'd seen back at Mint Eye. You flinch a little when you see it. Even if it's playing a looped feed right now… well, you’ve watched this area too many times to not feel paranoid now that you’re on the other side of the camera. 

But no one in the lobby even spares you a passing glance, as least as far as you can see, and you quickly find yourselves outside once more. 

The trembling gets worse, and he starts to pick and pinch at the fabric of your shirt. Not unceasingly, but every few seconds, there’s another little tug. One look at him, and you surmise that it's not really a conscious choice. A nervous habit, maybe? Regardless, you keep quiet. 

The car is nearby, thankfully, just down the street in a parking lot meant for patrons of a run-down fabric store that wasn't even a third of the way full when you left. 

His shoulders hunch little by little, and he seems to retreat into himself, though he doesn't let his hand drop from your back until you turn a corner and the apartment building is finally out of sight. 

“He won't follow us, will he?” you ask as you stop at the edge of the crosswalk with him. You can see the car from here, actually. In your nervousness, the words spill out. It's so much worse when you're just standing here, waiting, and you will the light to turn green so you can go and at least try to distract yourself by moving. “I mean, we've got a head start, so he'd have to zero in on us fast to do that, and I don't think he's going to leave her there alone, so probably not, right?”

He is unresponsive, though when the cars around you slow to a stop and the crosswalk light turns on, he begins to move immediately. You have to quicken your pace to keep up, and it's still a little difficult. 

“Hey, boss, slow down a second, huh?” No response, just his usual fast pace. “Aw, c’mon, Saeran--”

The change is immediate. 

“Don’t--” He whips around right there in the middle of street, still as a statue except for the way his hands tremble at his sides. “Don’t  _ call me that name! _ ” He shrieks, and you reel at the ferocity of the reaction. 

Damn it, oh, goddamn it, you did not meant to say that. 

You reach for him as a gesture of comfort, as you've done for him in the past, but he jerks away and wrenches back violently. The laptop falls from his fingers and hits the ground with a distinctive  _ crack _ . He doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't care. 

“Don't  _ touch  _ me!” he cries, eyes wild again. He takes a faltering step back, eyes locked on you, full of fury.

You are standing in the middle of the street. People are staring. 

“I don't need your concern,” he spits harshly. His fingers clench and unclench at his sides. “I don't need--” He cuts off, either unwilling to continue or unsure how. “ _ Don't,”  _ he hisses finally, and turns on his heel. 

He stalks ahead and you scoop up the laptop before hurrying after him, though you'd be surprised if it's in any sort of working condition. 

He reaches the car before you, of course, but he's still looking for the keys, and every moment he cannot find them makes his motions less precise, so he is furiously shoving his hand in his pocket by the time you catch up. 

You almost reach for him again, but stop yourself. “Back pocket, left side,” you say softly, and he stills, then reaches for the correct pocket. The keys jangle in his hand as he shakes. 

You watch him try and fail to unlock the car multiple times, growing more agitated each time, practically stabbing the key towards the lock, and something unknown and aching growing in your chest, weighing heavy on you. 

As he is right now, he seems liable to turn into oncoming traffic or crash into a building. 

But you think if you told him that, he… wouldn't take it well. And hey, he finally gets the key to fit, so maybe he’s not doing quite as bad as you thought? 

You try to ignore the sense of dread that begins to rise as you watch him slide into his seat, and make your way to the other side of the car and settle in. 

He doesn't reach for the blindfold even after you're both situated, but you decide against reminding him -- not even out of curiosity, mostly, but just… to keep him in this calmer state. Now that things have gone so awry, it might not take much to set him off again. Staying focused on the next step to take seems to be working for him thus far, so distracting him from that is… not particularly tempting. 

Maybe like this he'll be able to get you both back to Mint Eye in one piece after all. 

He rolls his shoulders as you set the ruined laptop in the backseat and pulls haltingly out of the lot. 

It's after the third near rear-ending that you re-evaluate your earlier optimism. He is  _ definitely  _ in no state to be behind the wheel. 

“Boss,” you say after one such encounter, gripping the sides of your seat so tightly you think you might embed your nails in the cushion, “pull -- pull over. Please.”

“...why.” He doesn't look at you. His hands remain fixed on the steering wheel, clenching tightly.

“I think I'm gonna puke.” Or have a heart attack. One or the other. 

He casts you a sidelong glance that only lasts a second or two, cutting away when you try to return his gaze, but, oddly, does not question you, only pulls over into another parking lot -- across two lanes of traffic without a turn signal, which only strengthens your resolve. 

He idles in the parking lot for a few minutes, waiting for you to regain the color in your face and speak. 

At last, you do. “Boss,” you say carefully, “why don't you let me drive?” 

And now he stares at you, making eye-contact at last. He looks -- he looks -- 

_ Awful _ . 

Blank and brittle, worn out and frenzied, somehow all of this at once. He's radiating frantic energy, but you fear that if that were to drain out of him, he would collapse, spent and lifeless. 

“You've already done a lot today,” you say softly, and he flinches. You want to scramble to reassure him that this was not meant as a dig at him, but you keep your voice as even and steady as you can instead. Platitudes may make it worse. “Now let me do this for you. Please.” You give him a quick once-over, taking note of the myriad of little cuts around his hands and arms, likely a result of pushing through the glass window. “Give yourself a chance to rest.” Although, while the scrapes are worrying, you're more concerned with his mental well-being right now. 

He stares at you for a long moment, and then he twists his hand, turning off the car. For a moment he just stays in that position, and then his hand goes limp. 

“...fine.”

And you nearly breathe a sigh of relief. 

The transition is a little awkward, as you both go around the same way and you end up shuffling around each other. You try to give him a wide berth, unsure if he's still so strongly touch-averse, and you feel much better once you're in the driver’s seat. Already, the odds of sudden vehicle-related death seem to be growing slimmer. 

“Okay,” you say, “just… point me in the right direction. Turn right, then go straight for now?” That'd put you in the same direction you were going before he pulled over. 

He nods slowly. 

“Great!” you say, overly-cheerful. “You just… rest and give directions as needed, alright?”

His directions are simple -- right, left, straight ahead, change lanes now. Simple, no elaboration. He isn't feeling the need to be particularly chatty right now, it seems. 

You find soon that you're already fairly close to city limits -- you must have missed how much distance you'd covered while fearing for your life. It's… a shame. If you'd realized the opportunity before you, you would have tried to focus more on the route he was taking. It'd certainly make it easier to get back here, if you escape. 

When. 

He doesn't have many directions to give before you're leaving the city and heading down more rustic roads. 

He fares… not so great. His expression remains morose, and he draws his knees up to his chest, drumming his fingers on his legs, on the window, on his seatbelt, on anything he can reach in stuttery, fast-paced motions. 

It's when the city has faded out of view that he finally speaks up and says something other than the concise directions he's been feeding you. 

“...you heard him use that name.”

“Yes.” No point in lying about it now that he's already heard you say the name, though your pulse still speeds up at the thought of what his response may be. You glance over at him as covertly as you can. 

“Hn.” He rests his chin on his knees now. 

No fury. That's good, at least. “I… didn't expect him to know it,” you try carefully.

You can see his face twist from your peripheral. “He thinks he knows a lot of things.” That's not an answer, but you'll be damned if you poke this particular bear. He hunches further in his seat, looking agitated. “That traitor shouldn't dare to use that name. Everything he says is tainted with his lies.”

You keep quiet, though you're desperate to know how Seven knows the name, to know why. 

“He’s a liar of the worst caliber.” His mouth cuts a jagged line as he speaks. “He destroys everything good around him, digs his claws into anything worthy and won't let it go until he's killed it, and he says--” He draws in a ragged breath, and his hands clutch his knees, nails digging in. “Seven-zero-seven, defender of justice!” He adopts a faux-cheerful tone for this delivery, but the tremor in his voice has grown so that it all comes out like a sob. 

“He says he's a _hero_ , says he comes to _help,_ says he _cares_ , but he doesn't, he doesn't, he leaves people to rot and he never looks back, never, never, never, _never!_ ” He shrieks the last word and slams his fist against the dashboard. 

You jolt, barely managing to keep the wheel steady, but he keeps going, pounding against it as he repeats his litany, “ _ never, never, never, never! _ ”

You wince each time, and moreso when you watch his knuckles grow bloody, more and more with each agonized strike.

“He won't--!  _ Disappear! _ Why?! Why did I have to see  _ him _ ?! I--” He gasps in a breath, and cradles his wounded hand against his chest. “--prayed that I wouldn't see him, but there he was and he remembers it all and that goddamn  _ traitor!  _ Thinks he can lie to my face and I'll let him  _ ruin everything again _ and I won't, I never will, but--”

And now, you realize with a wave of pain, there are  _ tears.  _

“Why can't I be free of him yet? Why...? What am I doing wrong, why isn't it enough? Am I…?” 

His shoulders hunch and he folds in on himself and he just seems so goddamn lost that you start looking for a clear spot to pull over and you don't even realize what you're doing until you've put the car in park and let it idle. 

You're not sure if he notices. He doesn't uncurl from his position, just… winds his fingers in his hair and pulls, breath coming out in little stutters that worry you.  

You draw in a deep breath and hope for the best. “...boss.” You murmur. 

His hands still. 

You unbuckle your seatbelt and twist to face him. “Boss,” you say again. 

It takes a moment, but then he shifts just slightly and peeks at you through the crook of his elbow, one weary eye all you can see of his face in this hunched-over state. 

You hold out your hands, palms up, an offering. “...can I see?”

He turns his face into his shoulder first, frowning as he tries to dry his eyes by rubbing roughly against the fabric, like he's mad the tears ever existed. It takes a long, long moment, but he uncurls a little. Still slightly huddled and still with his knees pulled up, he holds his hands out to you. 

His motions are hesitant, nervous, and you keep as still as you can until his fingers finally come to rest at the heel of your palm. 

You keep your own movements slow, trying not to spook him. Carefully, you examine his hands.

There's little scrapes from the window, but only one hand is really banged up from his… impassioned reaction. Those knuckles sure are bloody though. The other is red around the side and around the knuckle of his smallest finger, though he didn't hit it hard enough to split the skin there, but there's also -- oh, damn. “Are these  _ bite marks _ ?” You give a low whistle. His lips curl down unhappily, but he doesn't answer. 

You pass his hands into one of yours so you can lower the other and better stretch back and root around for the first aid kit in the backseat. 

It's a dinky little case, but it should have  _ something  _ to help. 

“Ah! Here it is.” It had slid halfway under the front seat at some point, so it takes a little wiggling to dislodge it, but you manage, and pull it into your lap. 

You open the little plastic fastener with a click and pick through the contents until you find what you're looking for.

It's tricky to open the package that the alcohol wipe comes in but you don't really want to let his hands go, too worried that he wouldn't let you touch him again if you broke contact. 

“Okay,” you say, unfolding the alcohol wipe, “...this is going to sting.”

He just stares at you with his intense, pale eyes. You hesitate, but a lack of protest might be as good an indication of permission as you're going to get. Still, you prepare to move away quickly, in the event that you've misconstrued this. 

And you swipe the alcohol wipe over his bloody knuckles. 

He hisses in a sharp breath and jerks away -- but doesn’t pull away entirely, just enough that his fingertips rest against yours, and he slowly slides his hands back so you're holding them more fully.

“You alright, boss?” He nods shallowly. You try not to dwell overmuch on how glossy his eyes look, or the lingering remnant of tears caught in his eyelashes. “Alright,” you murmur, steadying your hand and preparing to continue tending to him, “alright.”

He hisses again as you begin to clean the blood from his hands, but soon relaxes, softens under your touch. 

You find yourself murmuring words of comfort to him as you work. “There we go, that's it… you're alright… you're okay… almost done… that's not so bad now, is it?” 

The kit doesn't have the largest selection of bandages, but what it has will do well enough, you think. You wrap the most flexible-seeming ones around his knuckles then pull away and let him see his hand. “There, see?” 

He examines it, flexing his fingers, then places his hand in yours again. He looks to his other hand, then to you. 

“What?” He doesn't respond, just pushes against your palm with the hand you haven't yet tended to. Ah. You bite back a comment about how  _ expectant  _ he is, not sure if he can handle your teasing just yet. Instead, you just reach for another alcohol wipe and start cleaning up the glass cuts -- and the  _ bite mark _ . 

You're… not really sure what bandage to use on this. You stroke your thumb idly over the back of his hand as you pick through the box, intending to provide some comfort as you look, small as it may be. 

Mmm… not the ones you used for his knuckles, the shape wouldn't cover that well -- though you don't necessarily need something that’ll cover each mark since the marks don't puncture the skin all the way around, just on a few of them. It's worse for the front ones, where the pressure must have been exerted more. The farther from that you look, the shallower the scrapes get. You could use one of the wide bandages, large enough to cover your palm one way, but then when he moves his hand it's liable to come off. Maybe just roll some gauze over it, let him move freely and still provide some coverage for the punctures to heal? Yes, that should do nicely. 

You pick at the end of the roll until it loosens and you can unwind a few inches of it, then glance back up at him -- and freeze, pinned by the weight of the way he's looking at you. 

Focused. Intense.  _ Trusting.  _

You tear your gaze away and focus on wrapping the gauze around his hand. You go slower than necessary just so you can have more time to try to shake the feeling that his expression gave you. 

“...there,” you say at last. “You're all good now.” You let his hands slip from your grasp before looking up at him. 

He pulls his hands back halfway, leaving them hanging in the air. His gaze looks faraway. “Am I good?” he whispers. 

“With the -- bandages? I thought so. Why, are they coming off?” He doesn't pull back when you reach for his hands again to check, but they haven't shifted at all, and… somehow, that doesn't feel like what he’s asking. 

He looks into your eyes. There is something searching in his expression, and you are helpless to look away. 

“I've always been faithful,” he whispers, “always. I follow the savior. I lead others to paradise. I help them find her so they can let go of their doubts and be free from their pain at last -- I found _you_ , I brought you here so you could join paradise and be happy! But no matter what I do, he never stops, he just -- lies and lies and leads others astray and I can't stop him, and--” His voice shakes. He begins to tear up. 

“Am I  _ good _ ?” His whisper is quiet. His fingers interlace with yours and he clutches tight. “I'm… good, aren't I?” The tears fall now, slipping slowly down his cheeks. “But if I was… wouldn't I be free of my pain…? Am I just not… good enough…?”

Oh.

And you hesitate. 

_ No _ . It lies there at the tip of your tongue. 

Kidnapping, stalking, controlling lives -- running a cult, helping to  _ expand  _ a cult, none of that is good, none of that  _ makes him good.  _

But he doesn't see it that way. He really… believes in this. All of this. He thinks what he's doing is good. 

He doesn't recognize the harm he's doing, that all of Mint Eye does, that it's  _ based upon causing pain _ .

And that doesn't justify any of this. 

And still,  _ still _ , an answer falls from your lips. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “You're doing your best.” It feels like the basest of lies and the simplest of truths. He  _ is  _ doing his best. He's just… doing his best at something that happens to be immensely terrible. 

You hesitate, still keeping his gaze, still gazing into the open wound behind his eyes. “...I thought you did well.”

And his face -- crumples, but it's like a weight lifts at the same time. His grip tightens even more on your hands and he tugs and it would be so easy not to follow the pull, but you do. 

You sort of -- fall against him at first. He pulls his hands back and leans into you, curling up against your chest.  

There's some shuffling to be done. It feels a little funny to be pulled into an embrace when you end up holding him and not the other way around, but you're not exactly about to point that out to him. 

You lean in and brush your hands over his face, wiping under his eyes with your thumbs, but still, he stares expectantly at you. You nearly huff. What does he want, a kiss?

...oh, shit, actually -- 

Ever since that moment in the alleyway a few days ago, it’s possible. He  _ does _ get handsy when he’s upset. As well as when he’s not. 

But that’s -- not helpful. You’re not gonna just  _ smooch him _ to take him mind off things. You do  _ want  _ him to feel better, but it’s really not situationally-appropriate, and it’s disingenuous, anyway. Misleading. And solves nothing in the end, a bandaid over what seems to be a gaping emotional wound. 

...you don’t have any evidence that that’s what he’s after, anyway, just a sense that he wants something more than this to be comforted, and in small measures, and if you’re  _ very  _ careful, that can be comforting… 

So, with no small amount of trepidation, you toss a  _ measure  _ of caution to the wind and press a small, quick kiss to his forehead. 

His eyes light up and his face smooths over with contentment -- and then he frowns slightly and gives you an impatient look. “Again.” He seems to sulk at the fact that you haven't already continued.  

“...Seriously?”

“ _ Again, _ ” he insists. 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.  _ Needy.  _ But there's still an unsteadiness to him, a weakness he hasn't yet shoved back into the shadows. So you repeat the motions, brushing your hands across his face and ending in another small kiss to his forehead. 

He is starry-eyed, though he still sniffles wetly as he buries his face in your chest. You wrap your arms around him, hoping this will be steadying, somehow.

You trail one hand up and down his spine and, since you can no longer really reach his face, instead brush your fingers through his hair, though you still press your lips to the top of his head between these motions. He practically purrs in contentment, nuzzling into you. 

“It's okay, boss,” you murmur, “you're okay…”

He mumbles something into your shirt. 

“...sorry, what was that, boss?”

He hesitates, and then, so quietly you can barely hear him: “Say that name.”

“That name? ...Saeran?”

“Mmm.” He sighs, shifting a little, though he remains pressed against you. “...sounds better in your mouth than in his,” he sighs. 

“Yeah?” You stroke his hair again. “...thought you might've been mad about it, earlier.”

“Mmn. Don't like when he says it.” You can feel him frown against you. “Or anything. He shouldn't speak. He taints things just by speaking of them. But you… don't.”

“That's… good.”

He pulls away and looks you in the eye. “Call me that from now on.”

“--wait, really?”

“Mm _ hmm _ . ...you shouldn't have learned it from him. But I like hearing you say it. I want to hear it more.”

“Well, boss -- ...Saeran.” You shake your head. “Saeran,” you repeat. “If that's what you want, that's what I'll do.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle with the satisfied smile he gives you -- which makes your chest ache seeing as his eyes are still red-rimmed and a little swollen. 

And then something seems to occur to him and he makes an unhappy little noise, returning his cheek to your chest. “We’ll have to tell the savior. That I... failed her.”

“I'm sure she'll understand. You did all you could.” You hesitate, then add, “it was  _ his  _ fault for ruining our plans.”

“...that's right.” He nods, and twists to lean his head on your shoulder, though he loops an arm around your back to keep you close, then sighs happily. “We'll destroy that hypocrite once and for all, together, and then everything will be okay. Then we can be happy.”

You pet his hair once more. “Of course. ...Saeran.”

He is reluctant to pull away, and in all honesty, you're not feeling particularly rushed to let him go, either. You're not sure how long you stay there, but by the time you return to the driver's seat, the sun has dipped noticeably lower in the sky than when you pulled over. 

His eyes still look a bit red, but his tears have long since dried. 

Still, he stays like this -- clingy, in a way -- keeping a hand over one of yours whenever possible for the entire drive back -- during which, the blindfold doesn't come into play  _ at all.  _

You are at war with yourself. A part of you is attentive to him, to Saeran, still recovering and vulnerable beside you, but another part is memorizing  _ everything _ , taking note of every turn, of how long it takes between them, of anything that could be used as a landmark. 

When you return to Mint Eye, you see the garage when you park the car for the first time, with fingers intertwined with his to steady him, and wide eyes taking note of everything you possibly can. 

The options this opens up, the escape plans it changes--! You may actually have a way out now, a method and a route. 

\-- and you also think of him, arm looped around your waist as you make your way back to his workroom, and realize what your actions today might mean. With the way you reacted, you think of the possibilities you may have closed off, and more that you may shut yourself out of if you let yourself fall into this -- into him. 

But it may already be too late for that. 

Because, with as vulnerable as he seems -- escape feels like it would send a knife to wedge in his heart. 

And though you need to, you're not sure if you have it in you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note that, of course, affection is not the cure to all breakdowns; you are, here, Doing Your Best In A Bad Situation but it's not exactly the best course of action in any other circumstance. preemptive warning for the next chapter: there's going to be... much more direct allusions to drug-use. as well as non-allusions. these next ones are gonna be a doozy.   
> shoutout to maddy and niku for help with edits! the real mvps, esp when I had so many areas I was unsure about when I started the editing process.


	9. confidence is key, and you are now, as you often find yourself, trapped behind a lock

Despite the calamitous failure at the apartment, everything else seems to go as predicted. 

Your earlier guess -- or really, just your attempt at comfort, words you didn't exactly put much thought into beyond believing they would make him feel better -- turns out to be accurate; strangely enough, the savior _does_ understand his failure. 

Though she is disappointed. That much is still clear. 

He’d fallen to his knees when you'd arrived, rendered nearly inconsolable even before he began to deliver his report, bowing his head and shakily pleading for forgiveness for failing her before giving his recollection of the day. 

It's a simple report, undetailed but comprehensive: he'd done days of surveillance, all the necessary research to be certain that he could get in and out of the apartment with the girl without being seen, he’d had you watching the camera in the hallway to warn him if anything changed and you'd done your job well, but he -- and his breath catches. But he failed. He wasn't fast enough, wasn't smart enough to conceal his presence from that hacker. Seven hacked the bomb, undid his work, and foiled his plans. He couldn't bring her to paradise, he could barely get himself out, and now...

For a long moment after, there is only silence, the mood cold and heavy with anticipation as she regards him.

“He knows you're here now,” she says finally, gazing down at him from her throne with an imperious gaze. “And the girl is still with him. He will not be swayed from finding us. You have done nothing but alert them to us.”

Saeran’s shoulders hunch at these words. 

“And now… the safety of paradise is at stake.”

“I understand the gravity of my failure, savior,” he whispers. 

“Do you?” Her voice is sharp. “You have set us on the edge of a knife and now we are teetering, within the grasp of a traitor. This cannot be allowed. The RFA must not find us. Paradise must be concealed, until they are ready to be lead here. You must be vigilant. You cannot falter. You must work harder than ever to ensure that this will be done.”

She lays out her judgment, and with each proclamation, he nods staunchly, looking more and more miserable.

“But…” She rises from her throne and descends the steps, places a hand on his back and urges him to stand. When he lifts his head, she smooths down his hair. “I know you can do it,” she murmurs. “Though you  _ will  _ need to be more diligent than ever to make up for your misstep, I would not trust you with these tasks if I believed you could not handle them. And…” She places her hands on his shoulders. 

To your surprise, he leans in slightly towards her, and she presses a quick, comforting kiss to his forehead. He closes his eyes and basks in the gesture. It’s -- oddly maternal. If it wasn’t for the ever-present knowledge that she is a cult leader who holds your fate in the palm of her hand, it might seem sweet. 

"I am glad that you were not caught and that the damage was minimal, though any hurt like that is more than you should bear,” she says. She looks to you now, and smiles. Bright but cold. “Would I be right to say that it's thanks to you that he's been tended to?” You offer a hesitate smile in return and she chuckles. She turns back to him. “Now… there is, of course, much to do. Given the circumstances, the time is not ideal for a celebration…”

He stiffens.

“...but the elixir is nearly ready, and it would be more disruptive to cancel these plans now that they are in motion.” The stiffness disappears, replaced by relief. “I am sure you can be entrusted with this task as well -- you may not have been able to bring someone new into paradise--” and here he winces, “--but you  _ will  _ be able to bring joy to paradise by welcoming another into the fold.”

She folds her hands together delicately. “Now, it will have to be rushed somewhat to account for today's failure, to allow the both of you to return to work as soon as possible, and so, regretfully, I don't believe I will be able to be present during your initiation. There are… things to be done to clean up this mess.” Her words send a shiver down your spine, somehow dangerous despite being spoken in that same sweet tone. “Rest assured, it will be as true an entrance into paradise as it could ever be.” Now she is addressing you. “I trust that he will carry out the necessary steps to perfection and give you the proper experience.”

And she smiles at you and you smile back and try not to let your panic show. 

He is brought nearly to grateful tears by her words, clutching at her robes and whispering his thanks. 

Indeed, despite the chastisements, her reaction seems to put Saeran much more at ease; he loops an arm around your waist and nestles you into his side as you leave, keeping you close as you make your way to his workroom. 

Once you're back, you fall back into a familiar pattern -- he settles himself comfortably in his chair, then pulls you to sit between his legs and wraps his arms around your waist. He checks all the feeds, checks the chatrooms, then checks the feeds again. He makes a discontented noise when he sees that the current topic involves Seven’s presence in the apartment, but the Savior’s faith in him seems to keep him from growing too agitated. 

“...your initiation is tomorrow,” he says after checking the feeds a third time and seeing nothing. “Are you nervous?” You hesitate, and he takes this as your answer. “Don't be. I’ve helped with initiations before, and I'll make sure it goes perfectly.” He tucks his chin between your neck and your shoulder, nuzzling slightly against your face. “...I'll make it special, just for you,” he murmurs. “So much good will come out of initiation. You've already been faithful… so faithful… and now you'll be able to stay among us forever. It might take some… getting used to. But you will, in time. Like I did.”

“...will it hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head, a motion you can feel, though you cannot see it. “No. You just feel… different. Lighter. As if you've been unburdened of all your troubles from the first sip alone.” He pauses, contemplative, before continuing. “...there was a time that I was taking the elixir much more frequently. But I have learned to take the lightness into myself without the elixir, and I know you will, too, with time.”

Something about those words sends a cold trickle of fear down your spine. He does not notice, only chuckles, “And you'll have a nice, new room to rest in as you become accustomed to it.”

Oh, right. He'd mentioned that before. “That’s ready now, is it?”

“Mm _hmm_. Everything in its place. You'll love it.” He tightens his grip, and his voice grows nostalgic. “I remember the first time I took the elixir, how strange and new it all felt… how comforted I felt by the care I received -- the room, made only for me, the trust she afforded me to grant me such an important task...” \-- was the workroom where he stayed when he first arrived here? “The savior herself came to soothe me, to take care of me. I'm sure she'll care for you just as she did for me, and… I'll be here to help you adjust as well.” Saeran pauses, thumbs brushing against your stomach, little idle circles. “...you're still welcome to spend time with me after you get a room of your own, you know. When there’s less work to be done and we’re able to rejoice in our success… you can come to me whenever you wish. I… hope you do.”

“...I will,” you promise. You have to fight a lump in your throats that forms at the thought of staying here that long, at being unable to get away. If you go through your initiation… will you be able to leave? And there is some guilt, too, guilt that you are thinking of this while he’s being so  _ sweet  _ with you.

He pulls you tighter against him, humming a note of satisfaction -- and then he jolts. 

“Saeran?” you question as he unwinds his arms from around you and pushes lightly against your back, urging you to stand. 

“--before tomorrow. Before the final preparations **.** Come and see my room. So you can find it if you need me.” And he stands and takes hold of your hand and pulls you from the room.

He turns left out the door and leads you down the hallway. You pass room after room, most with doors shut, but a few  are open, displaying the paltry furnishings, bleak and spartan in appearance, granted to the occupants of Mint Eye. Two believers nod at you as you pass. When you reach the end of the hallway, he tugs your hand and urges you on, to the right.

There's a set of doors that you've seen before, but never passed through -- they've never been open before, and they look… somewhat foreboding. He heads towards the keypad beside these, immediately setting to work punching in a code, something long and complicated-looking. There's a decisive  _ click _ , and then Saeran pushes the doors open. 

“This way,” he says. And you follow. 

You're going the opposite direction of  the way to the gardens, and yet -- just as you did then, when he brought you to take tea with the savior and walked in the gardens with her, you're struck by how different it’s becoming from the area around his workroom.

It gets lighter little by little as you walk, and when a staircase comes into view and you ascend with him, it's not hard to see why -- on the floor above are a myriad of wide, beautiful windows letting sunlight stream in. 

Not that there's much of it now. It's nearly sunset already. 

But this is not all that catches your eye. No, what you notice is how  _ nice  _ everything up here looks. Maybe that's why the windows have been saved for this floor -- it's actually worth illuminating. 

“One of these rooms will be yours,” he murmurs, “and mine is further down.” 

\-- these are all  _ bedrooms _ ? They're sure more  _ spaced out  _ than the rest of the ones you've seen thus far. 

He tugs lightly on your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. “C’mon. ...mine first, so you can find it, then yours.” And off he leads you, down this new hallway. His pace is slow to allow you take in these new sights.

The doors to your left are closed, at least the first few, but not the doors on the right, which lets you see that these are, at least, not  _ all _ bedrooms. You're not sure how many of the doors you can see lining the hall, stretching out before you, are bedrooms, but some of these are… definitely not for personal use -- or, not for sleeping, anyway. The propped-open double doors of this first room on the right let you see a kitchen that's much fancier than the no-nonsense one downstairs. Even in the short time you're able to peek into the room, the open cabinets show a variety of foods that don't look nearly as bland as what you’ve seen while rooting through the kitchen downstairs -- but  _ does _ look like what the disciples have been bringing for you and Saeran in recent days. This is where they've been getting that, then. 

As you continue to follow him, you catch a glimpse of a room whose interior is somewhat bizarre -- the third room on the left is dimly lit, reminding you almost of a darkroom, until you catch a hint of the acrid smell emanating from it and see someone cross your line of sight with a large glass decanter filled with cloudy, mint-colored liquid. The dimness is too obfuscating, leaving too much unseen, unclear, for you to feel like you understand the purpose of the room, although it leaves you feeling unsettled. 

The room is on the left side of the hall, so you suppose that even if you have no idea what it's purpose is, you've learned something in the confirmation that it's not solely bedrooms on that side.

And a little further down from that, there's -- 

You come to a halt, pulling on his hand to try to get him to stop. “Wait, hold on, is that the stage you were talking about, the one that's meant for Zen?”

Saeran’s lips pull up in a smirk. “Later,” he promises. When you begin to protest, he shakes his head. “ _ Later _ . We’ve got to return to the monitors soon, but you should know how to find me if you need me. I… want to be able to help you.” The assertion is sincere. Earnest. 

“Thank you, Saeran,” you say softly.

A smile graces his face. You follow when he begins to walk again.

Saeran’s room is only a few doors down from there, as you learn when he tugs you to the side, closer to it. “Here,” he says, and gestures to the door. There's a keypad by this one, too.

“Here?” You don't doubt him, but it's not exactly distinct from any of the other doors. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Not what you expected?”

“It's just that there's... not much  _ to _ expect, I suppose?” you say. “I'm sure I’ll have no problem remembering which one it is with time, but…”

“Mmh.” His brow furrows in consternation. “Think it'll be hard to find at first?” 

“Yeah. That's the worry, anyway.”  You shake your head. “But maybe it'll be easier, depending on where my room is.”

He nods slowly. “We should make sure you can find your way here, one way or another.”

“Could always put up a sign. ‘Saeran’s room, do not bother unless you're his totally hot and super-genius assistant.’” You spread your hands out as you speak, pretending to envision the sign. 

He snorts. “Sure. That'd do it.”

“Hey, don't knock the idea, it would!”

He shakes his head with a smile and lets go of you to punch in another code. There's a soft  _ click _ , and then he turns the doorknob and pushes open the door, and when he steps inside, you follow after him. 

“...oh, wow,” you breathe.

His room is -- well --  _ big.  _ Bigger than the room he’s been sleeping in as long as you've been there, anyway, and bigger than the bare rooms of the other disciples. The bed against the wall’s gotta been queen-sized at least, and  _ plush _ , piled with pillows and a comforter you could sink into with ease. God, what you would have given to have  _ that  _ back at the workroom. 

But it's fairly sparse other than that, kind of… impersonal. No pictures, none of his tech shit, nothing to make it feel particularly lived in, or like it's even been  _ looked _ at in weeks. That impression isn't helped by the heavy scent of dust hanging in the air -- as well visible traces of the dust itself over most surfaces -- that makes it seem… musty. 

Still, it's a definite step up. 

“Do I get one of those?” you ask, eyes on the bed. It'd be a nice change from the…  _ cozy  _ set-up you've had thus far.

“Mmm… maybe. Could just use mine.” 

You glance at him. He meets your gaze evenly, but his expression is made soft by the hint of a smile he hasn’t quite managed to suppress. “That... sounds like the arrangement we’ve had this entire time..”

“And why change a good thing?”

You roll your eyes exaggeratedly, and he chuckles. 

“Ah,” he says after a moment, “and there's something else.”

You widen your eyes, adopting an air of intense curiosity. “Something  _ else _ ? I can hardly bear the anticipation.”

Saeran shakes his head and reaches for your hand again. “C’mere.”

He leads you to a door set into the far wall, nudges it open, and...

“Aww, Saeran, you -- c’mon --”

He laughs as you fumble your way through your distress, and you have no qualms about continuing. “Even before I had my own room,  _ you  _ had one, and it has a fancy-ass  _ non-communal bathroom _ , and you -- did not tell me. This is a single shower and not a series of shower heads all packed in together and you did not tell me this, how... could you  _ do _ this to me?” And are these countertops  _ marble _ ? The decadence of it all is staggering. Comparative decadence, anyway.

He looks you right in the eye -- and shrugs. You gasp as if scandalized. 

“...you know, it  _ could  _ be shared,” he says.

“Not after a curveball like this, it can't.”

He laughs at your swift rejection. He's in… a markedly better mood than he was earlier. It's nice to see that he’s comfortable enough to tease like this, after the ordeal this day has been.

“Now that you've seen mine… do you want to see yours?”

“Oh, I absolutely do.” You grow giddy at the thought of having a bedroom to yourself, a  _ shower  _ to yourself -- a feeling which is dampened by the reminder that you never wanted to be here long enough to become a permanent fixture.

He leads you slowly down the hall so you can count the doors and, hopefully, will be find which is his. It's the fourth door from the stairs on this side, you find -- should be easy to remember. Though you hope you're out of here before you'd ever have to put that knowledge to use. 

Your room isn't down this hallway, but through another, one you reach by taking a different turn after the stairs. Still, it's not too far. Three doors down, and much the same as his -- though you don't have a keypad or anything special to lock the door, and the room has a cute little table and two chairs that his lacked. 

“Am I all set to take tea now?” you ask as your eyes roam around the room.

“The savior likely wants you to have the option available to you, for when there isn't enough time to visit in the garden.”

The mention of this idea gives you goosebumps. Ah. Right. She may be expecting a few social calls in the future. 

“...I've almost taken it in, just -- give me a minute, please, I've just got to do  _ one _ thing,” you say. 

He tilts his head, but nods, and that's good enough for you. 

You flop onto the bed and lay there spread-eagle for a long moment. God, it's soft. You've missed soft beds. 

“So…” At his voice, you crack open one eye. “You like it?” His expression is hopeful. Almost…  _ shy _ . Like he's looking to you for approval. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows to see him better, then take a glance around the room. You can't say it's particularly indicative of your tastes, but it's clearly been decorated with care, everything done in shades of pastels, with some lovely art framed on each wall. “...I do,” you say at last. “This is all -- very gracious of you. The both of you.”

A smile splits his face. “I helped pick out what went in the room,” be confesses. “I asked the savior for advice, to be sure it would be perfect. She knew you'd like it.”

“Well… the savior was right as always,” you say. 

He beams. 

And then, despite all that is still unseen, you must return to work. 

“So…” you begin as the pair of you leave your soon-to-be room behind. “This is where I'll go tomorrow? After… initiation.”

“Mm _ hmm _ . You'll… need rest.”

“Right…” It definitely  _ sounds  _ like an… intense experience. Your stomach coils into a knot of fear. 

Today’s outing has let you see enough of the route here that you think you could find the way back to the city, but you still don't have a  _ plan _ , and you'd still get caught again without a way to dodge Saeran’s surveillance skills, which you  _ definitely  _ don't have. 

You shake your head to clear away this thought. Not helpful to worry now.  “...are any of the other rooms up here occupied?” you ask, fiddling with the hem of your shirt with your free hand. 

“Some are in use,” he says, “but the bedrooms are unassigned, save for mine… and now yours.”

“Are more  _ going  _ to be… assigned? Eventually?”

“Yes. Soon, in fact.” He gives your hand a squeeze as you descend the stairs together. “We’re paving the way for them to come now.”

You reach the bottom. “...the RFA.”

“Yes. Soon they'll live with us in Paradise.” He smiles at you as he holds open the doors. You note that there’s no password required to get through them on this side. That's good, at least. 

You wish you could be as at peace in this situation as he is. 

The rest of the night progresses much the same as all the others, though he is even more attentive to the monitors -- and he has to hastily patch up his laptop on top of that. Being dropped onto the street hasn't been kind to it, but it seems to still be functioning. He sets it by the bed before he sleeps, so it can warn him, then curls up beside you. 

You wake feeling slightly groggy, and very warm -- he's managed to tangle himself up with you, head tucked under your chin. When you shift, he wriggles closer to you and makes a soft, contented noise.

“Saeran,” you protest, “hey -- c’mon, we gotta get up, busy day, remember?”

“Mmm…” he groans, “don't wanna leave you.”

“Leave me?”

He raises his head at last and blinks blearily at you. “Don't have the luxury of spending the morning with you.” His head drops again. “...I have preparations to make, some here, some outside the room, but... I need you out to do them. I can give you my laptop so you can keep an eye on the camera feeds, but I have to leave you alone in order to get all this done.” And he  _ pouts.  _ You stifle a laugh. “It's almost finished, but there are still a few minor things to do, and I need to be able to oversee these final steps. ...I have to make it special,” he says, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair tenderly behind your ear. 

“That's… alright,” you say. “But -- the initiation. It's in here?” 

“...do you not want it to be?”

“No, I just -- I mean, if it  _ can  _ be done in here, so much the better, I guess it'll be nice to do it some place familiar. I guess I was just thinking it'd be something large-scale.”

He shakes his head. “It’s for you and you alone. It doesn't take much space.”

“That makes sense.” You pause, considering that path that lies before you, the expectations placed on you. “Does it matter where I go?”

“You're no more restricted now than you have ever been,” he says. Seeing as you've never been fully clear on where you are and aren't supposed to be, that doesn’t exactly clear up where you’ll be allowed to go, particularly now that you’ll be roaming unaccompanied, but you doubt asking again would shed any more light on this subject. 

“Right,” you say. “...you know, if you get  _ off  _ me, we can get ready, and I’ll see you again sooner.”

“Mnnn… yeah.” And he sits at last. He runs a hand through his hair, blinks heavily, then looks back at you. His gaze is clear. “It won't be long,” he assures you. “Everything will be ready before you know it.”

That's what you're afraid of. 

But this is a golden opportunity -- you honestly have no idea where you could settle in to watch the feeds, so you can wander and… scout the place out. 

You pick up the laptop from beside the bed, as careful as you can. Despite the meticulous repairs he made to it last night, you still feel as if it could fall apart at any moment.

“If I see anything… worrisome… on any of the feeds, anything that looks like they may be planning something, I should… come and get you, even if you're in here, right? Or…?”

He hesitates. “...yes.”

“Right. Well. …hopefully they'll be too thrown for a loop by yesterday to really have anything up their sleeves so soon, and things can continue as planned. I… guess I'll see you when everything's ready, then?”

And he nods. 

So you dress -- though he doesn't make it easy **,** reluctant as he is to see you go -- and wish him well, then head off and begin your wanderings.

You might not be quite so averse to parting as he is, but it doesn’t take long to wish you were not left along. 

At the very least, you begin think it would have been nice to have branched out more before this moment -- you can't really think of  _ anywhere  _ that would be a particularly comfortable spot to set down. You didn't really pay attention to those sort of things when you were with him. Then again, you also didn't get a  _ choice  _ in where to go, then, either. 

You balance the laptop in your arms and walk slowly to avoid the risk of dropping it, and for a while, you just… pace the hallways. 

It is really, really boring.

No matter how many times you look at the feeds or check the chatrooms, nothing changes. The RFA is nervous, understandably so, but they're unsure of where Saeran came from, and why he came at all, so there's nothing even  _ close  _ to a plan for how to respond being discussed. 

And you can't even distract yourself with company. 

The hallways aren't exactly bustling right now, though it's not devoid of devotees, either. You wave politely to a few who pass you -- and to one who emerges from a room right as you're about to pass by the door, which startles you bad enough that you jolt and clutch the laptop to your chest -- but many of them just stare blankly at you, looking through you, and those who respond only give you a brusque nod and continue on their way, too dedicated to whatever task they've been assigned.

Finally, after far too long staring at the unchanging feed, you shift the laptop and tuck it under one arm. God, you're not sure how much more you can take of this. Maybe a change of scenery would help. 

...you've never seen the throne room empty before. If the savior isn't holding court, you could take a look around.

It may not be the wisest decision, but you're… antsy. You need some way to alleviate your growing anxiety, and this might… help. It’s something else to focus on, anyway. 

So you make your way down the hallway and to the stairs. 

There's even fewer people on the ground floor than up above. The halls are quiet. Thank goodness. You pad along the halls until you reach an open door, but hesitate before stepping in. It…  _ is  _ unoccupied, right? No sermons going on, no cultists showing their devotion?

You peer in cautiously, but can't see anyone, and there's nowhere to hide, unless someone was crouching behind the throne.

That thought raises goosebumps along your arms, but it's -- unlikely, to say the least. And it would be nice to have a look at it when you're not cowering in mortal peril, made breathless by the power of the woman who claims the throne. And hey, maybe enduring a few moments of anxiety over the possibility of running into someone here will give you some relief when you leave. 

So you step inside. 

It is the largest room you've visited within the complex, by  _ far _ , and even empty, it's… eerie. 

The lack of the savior also doesn't diminish the religious vibes. You've never attended while her preaching is in full session, but… you've caught glimpses before. Even without pews for worshippers, it's clear that worshipping is indeed what is meant to happen here. 

The throne is the only seat in the room. If you're anyone other than the savior, all your focus will be on her, sitting high above the rest. 

You skirt the edges of the room, feeling vaguely unsettled by the idea of walking closer to the center of the room -- too much open air, too obvious.

It's lovely, managing to look both modern and medieval. You try not to stray close enough to the wall that you're brushing against it, feeling as though your touch would damage it somehow, like it's meant to stay pure, unblemished by the touch of sinners such as you. As you near the throne, this feeling intensifies. You are… not going near that thing, that's for certain. 

There's a little alcove near the steps to the throne that you've never noticed before, set into the wall just before the steps. With a glance behind you, you can see that this alcove is mirrored on the other side, too. There's a door here, too, wooden and sturdy.

...there are candles placed by the door. They're not burning on this side, but are they burning over there…? The hair on the back of your neck raises, and when you hear a voice, you grow absolutely still.

It's faint, but -- distinctive. 

_ The savior.  _

You begin to back away from the alcove, taking shaky steps away from the throne as you try to figure out where her voice is coming from. 

It’s distant. And... below? 

_ Through the door _ , you realize as her voice grows steadily stronger, and you don't need any more prompting than that. You turn and bolt, fingers clutching the sides of the laptop as you flee, so tightly they turn white.

Through the doors and along the hallway and on and on until you reach one of the only places nearby that might provide a place to hide, that you're  _ allowed  _ to be -- the kitchen.

It’s a relief to see that only one of the double doors is open right now; provides some sense of cover as you dart into the room. Though you  _ are  _ flustered enough that you only barely stop yourself from barreling into someone already in the kitchen, and still manage to send them off balance.

There's something familiar about them, but you can't place who they are until you reach to steady them and they turn wide, startled eyes to you, and a flicker of recognition passes through you  -- you've seen her in the kitchen before, preparing food. One of the more lucid believers, though that doesn’t necessarily mean much. 

“--sorry,” you manage, after a long moment of waiting for some sort of reaction from her other than deep, abject terror.

“No!” she cries immediately, “it’s -- it's my fault, I'm sorry, you're not hurt, are you?” When you shake your head, relief crosses her face, although it does not displace the look of panic. “Still, I -- I'll just --” 

And she turns and busies herself with attending to something in a bowl on the counter, shoulders hunched. 

Your eyes narrow in confusion and you nod slowly, though she is no longer facing you.

Is she like this around everyone? Or is there something about you that elicits such a strong reaction? Doesn't  _ really  _ matter, you suppose, though it still stings to be looked at with such fear.

She shifts occasionally to set a little dollop of something doughy and semi-formless onto a metal tray beside her. Whatever she's making, there seems to be quite a lot of it. Must be nearing lunchtime for the believers. 

You peel your fingers away from their vice grip on the laptop and pull it away from your chest so you can check the feeds. 

Cameras look normal. Chatrooms are rather mundane for the moment. Nothing's changed. Nothing is in jeopardy. 

You close it again with a strange sense of relief. It would be better if the RFA knew what was going on. Seven seems a decent enough rival to Saeran’s skills -- though you'd never breathe a word of this belief -- and they might be able to actually counter this cult shit. But no changes is… stable. Or it feels that way, at least. You know, you  _ know  _ that if nothing changes here, what happens to you will be  _ far  _ from stable, but reminding yourself of this still doesn't shake the sense of gratitude that there isn't a new crisis to deal with.

...the woman is still standing stiffly, movements shaky hunched as she continues to prepare the food. You'd go, but you're not sure it's safe to be out there yet, so close to the throne room. Maybe you can put her at ease, just a little?

You sidle up to the counter, movements slow, as if approaching a wild and easily frightened animal.    


“...hey,” you start. “You, uh… need any help?”

She jolts at the sound of her voice, and her head jerks from side-to-side emphatically, a panicked answer. “No, I'm -- I'm perfectly alright, thank you. I'm sorry that it's taking so long.”

“Oh, no, you don't need to apologize, that's not what I meant--”

And now she flinches back and begins to apologize for apologizing. You open your mouth to try to reassure her, but stop yourself. If you asked her to stop, she might start to cry.

You wrack your brain, trying to remember when you saw her before, and to any previous time you may have interacted with  _ anyone _ here for that matter -- was there something you did that scared her, scared the others? But you turn up blank. You’ve had almost no encounters with other believers, and you’ve exchanged few words, so why--?

...is it because of Saeran? Your proximity with him? He's clearly special for a variety of reasons, some of which you know, and some you can only assume -- he is, still, the only hacker you've ever heard mention of in Mint Eye, but he also seems to have a certain closeness with the savior that you've never seen from anyone else, and you're not sure his position quite explains that -- and you're always with him, always by his side.  _ And _ , as long as you’ve been here, not once has he expressed a desire to interact with any in Mint Eye, save for the savior -- and yourself. 

Are you assumed to share his aloofness? Or are you now  _ special _ too? Is it because you haven't undergone initiation and you're not yet ‘one of them?’ 

Or… is she scared for reasons beyond that? Hell, maybe it’s not about you at all -- maybe she just doesn’t like to be bothered. Whatever the reason, she looks like she’s getting so nervous she’s about to be ill, and you have no desire to reduce her to tears.

“You’re fine,” you say, as soft and as gentle as you can, “really, it’s alright. I’m… not staying long, I was only -- checking in.” 

She hesitates, then nods. 

“This looks… delicious,” you continue, though the balls of dough seem lumpy and irregular up close. You’re not sure how much of that is your influence.

“Th-thank you.” She doesn’t look particularly reassured, but she is, at least, not any more upset than she was. 

Though another problem presents itself. 

You… really should bow out, but -- god, you haven't eaten yet today. You don’t know how long she’ll be in here, or when more believer will start to trickle in, and getting something now seems like a better idea than coming back later, awkward as it may still be, so -- 

"I... haven't had breakfast--” Or lunch. “--and I see that you're not finished with that delightful-looking meal, which is a crying shame -- but perfectly understandable!” you add the last part hastily. “Do you happen to have anything... portable?"

She blinks wide, contemplative eyes at you. “I actually have a finished batch made, if you'd like some?”

You try not to wince. The ones she’s making now look… a little unappetizing, but… “Sure,” you say, “sounds great.” At least it’s already made. Makes for a quick meal. Better than sticking around any longer than necessary. 

She pulls something from one of the cabinets, then darts away to one of the tables, where you can now see more trays filled with… bread? Oh. Those ones don’t look as malformed as the ones on the counter. You suppose it  _ is _ your fault that the ones she’s been working on look the way they do. 

She comes back with what you now see is coarse brown bread wrapped in a napkin. This actually looks entirely edible. You take an experimental bite, and it's pretty damn good. 

You have  _ got  _ to leave her be so she can salvage the rest of this batch. 

“Thank you,” you say, “I appreciate this.”

She bows her head, a faint smile playing at her lips. “I’m... honored to serve a favorite of the Savior.

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised at that statement, but it’s still strange to hear. That’s a thought for another time, though -- when more pressing matters have been resolved, perhaps. But that does sort of answer your earlier question.

She looks pretty calm now, even somewhat pleased by the turn in conversation. ...though, now that she is, you begin to think that maybe what made her look so close to tears is a general bleariness around her eyes that makes them look red and lends a slightly haggard air to her. 

You suppress a shudder at this thought. You’ve never actually seen -- drugging going on here, but given how… out-of-it some of the believers seem, and the way that Saeran talks about initiation, about the  _ elixir _ , you have little doubt that it  _ is _ happening, even if it’s out of sight to you. 

But you’ve stood here too long, considering. You’re making her nervous again. With this in mind, you offer her a wan smile, then head for the door. 

And now… well, you suppose you’ll just wander. Wait. 

And think. There’s too many thoughts to keep them held at bay forever. Somehow, acknowledging what may be going on here makes it worse. 

You head in the direction of the gardens, intending to make a few loops around the hallways, passing from the entrance to the garden at one end and the path to the garage at the other, hoping that the walk and the switch from artificial to natural light will help somehow, act as a balm to your troubled mind.

...Saeran has his own brand of  _ off  _ when he comes back from those occasional morning outings. You’ve never seen him look so vacant as some of them do, nor have you seen him acting particularly strange before, or at least, not without reason -- that hacker can shake him up pretty bad, after all. But maybe it’s like the elixir you’ll take in your initiation, something you ‘get used to?’ Is he getting -- whatever they rest of them get, and he’s just  _ used to it _ ?

Would he go without prompting, willingly seeking it out? Is it considered some sort of privilege, and will  _ you  _ be deemed worthy of it once you're initiated? 

As more time passes, and as you consider these thoughts further, your desperation grows. 

You know that if you pass by the way out -- the path to the garage, anyway -- there will be someone standing guard there. Several someones, most likely. They probably won't appreciate any attempts to chat. And still, you find yourself strolling along the hallway in that direction, because hey, fuck it, whatever's going to go down in your  _ initiation _ sounds ominous enough that it's probably going to be permanent and terrible and rearrange your brain or something, break you so they can mold you into an ardent believer, so you might as well take chances while you still can. 

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot a flash of color, teal, bright and vivid especially against this backdrop of muted gray and black and white. 

And because you're caught in a wave of frantic, feverish despair and you're filled to the brim with nervous energy you have no other outlet for, you follow it. 

It's gone behind you, back towards the gardens, and so you backtrack, pushing through the doors and standing outside in the sunlight. 

You squint in the bright afternoon air, and just barely catch a hint of black disappearing into one of the rows of greenery. A believer? It  _ seems  _ about right for one of their cloaks; the edge of it, vanishing from view.

You follow it, twisting and winding through the pathways, passing below trellis after trellis thick with blooming flowers, seeking the mysterious color and following the brief hints of teal that you see, the color reminding you of something you can't place but that fills you with rising urgency to catch it, and so you follow it doggedly -- until you stop short at the end of a row. 

Before you is a wide, circular area, like where you took tea with the savior the other day. Four paths connect here in front of you. There's no sign of anything but flowers. You have… no idea where it went. 

Or, come to think of it, what it even  _ was _ and why you were so adamant about chasing after it. And yet, somehow, having it elude you… you feel as though you could sob. 

You huff out a rueful laugh and sink onto a stone bench, scrubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand. No wetness. No proof of your frustration. Just what you feel. Your head sinks lower, shoulders hunching with the weight of your worries. Even the sunlight and bright colors of the garden can't help you now.

And then you hear your name, called out softly, and you raise your head. 

Saeran, standing at the end of a nearby path, eyes fixed on yours. 

“I've been looking for you.” He steps closer and sits beside you. “I had… begun to worry, until I saw you out the window.” A smile flits across his face, gentle and affectionate.

“...sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. I just got… caught up.” The words feel hollow. You know why he's here. “It's time?”

He nods, his smile widening, blossoming with warmth. He holds out a hand, and after a moment, you take it, shifting the laptop to one arm and allowing him to pull you up and lead you from the garden, each step bringing you closer and closer to the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i uhhhhhhhhhhh wrote 40 pages before realizing that that's kind of long for one chapter so i'm splitting them up. you get this 15 page chapter instead, and I get a 25 page chapter to edit now, but it's written so... it's still gonna need several days of editing at least but not two months to write so with that in mind, new chapter soon? drug warning for the next one. be aware.   
> also i always wanna reply to comments but i never know what to say and i get bashful but know this: if you leave a comment i love u and i would die for u. have a nice day, merry christmas to all, enjoy this nervous chapter and the knowledge that there is at least one (1) kiss coming up.


	10. making the most of the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drug use warning for this chapter. it's also... somewhat more risqué than previous chapters, so if either of those factors seem like something that'll be an issue for you, please feel absolutely free to shoot me a message (my tumblr is cannibalisticskittles) for a more spoilery synopsis to give you a better idea of what you're getting into, or find some way to make this still readable for you.

You feel as if you're in a sort of daze.

You pass through rows of flowers with him but register no details, remember none of the vibrant blossoms that surround you.

The numbness wears off in time, but you only start to feel grounded as you near the workroom -- which is unfortunate, as what you then begin to feel is fear, cold trickling through your veins, making each step harder.

“I told you, you don't have to be nervous,” Saeran murmurs as you ascend the stairs.

“...I know,” you say. You reach the top and your stomach drops out. You can see two black-cloaked disciples flanking the door to his workroom, waiting for you up ahead. You struggle to swallow with a dry throat. “It's just… a big change.”

“You'll be so happy,” he assures you, “every day will be better than the last.”

And what can you say to that?

You reach the door at last and the pair by the door nod respectfully at him, then at you, and then one of them steps back to open the door.

The other, you note, has something else in hand -- hard to see exactly what it is between the dim lighting and the position of their hands, but you see a glimpse of glass unobscured by the folds of their cloak, and the barest hint of the liquid swirling within.

Your breath catches.

Saeran tugs lightly on your hand and tugs you into the room, and when you blink, it's an effort to open your eyes again and watch what's happening around you, watch as the devotees follow after you on either side of you and Saeran. You try to steel yourself for whatever comes next, but your head spins faintly.

You don't know how to stop this. You don't have anything to bargain with, any angle to use to talk your way out.

You're trapped.

He leads you to the center of the room, and in the midst of your haze, some part of you still manages to note that those boxes of old papers and files that were piled up along the walls just this morning have been cleared away, and the room looks _tidy_. Is that all for your benefit, or is initiation just meant to be done somewhere that’s not so cluttered? You’re reminded of how insistent he was earlier that your initiation would be perfect, so either way, the gesture seems somehow… sweet.

As the believers come to stand a short distance away from the pair of you, Saeran traces the sides of your face with his hands, cupping your jaw.

“Are you ready?” he murmurs.

You nod, unable to force out any words.

He smiles again, expression radiating confidence, relief, _joy_. “Then we will begin.”

Saeran holds out a hand, and the believer who had been holding something passes the object deftly to him. As he brings it closer, you are able to get a better look and you see that it is a decanter filled with a still-unknown liquid the same shade of peculiar-but-dazzling mint you'd seen in the mysterious room the day before, but clear, no hint of the earlier cloudiness. It's heart-shaped, too. What a nice touch, a shape so innocuous and sweet carrying something so devastating.

Saeran uncorks the bottle, and your breath catches as the smell reaches your nose, strong and caustic. It’s quite like turpentine.

“You know why we're here,” Saeran murmurs. “We are honored today to witness your initiation into the halls of Magenta, our wonderful paradise. A world filled with pleasure, with truth… without tears or rejections… where everyone is happy.” He chuckles softly, and gives you a fond look. “Where you have already brought happiness through your presence alone.”

Somehow, the words still make your stomach twist. Even now, standing at the brink of the unknown but easily-predicted horrors, it still aches to think of how deeply he has come to trust you, in spite of your intentions all this time.

He continues, unaware of your thoughts of self-doubt. “There is no need to test your loyalty. You have already proven yourself time and time again. This elixir marks your first step into a greater happiness, into the place of peace and love you deserve. Now… drink.”

And he holds the bottle to your lips.

You still. You look from the bottle, to him, and back again. And then you close your eyes and nod weakly. What other choice do you have?

He tips the bottle, letting the elixir spill into your mouth.

The moment the liquid touches your tongue, your eyes shoot open and you gag, jerking back and twisting to spit out as much of it as you can, desperate to be free of the taste, the burn on your tongue.

The next breath you draw in stings, as though the elixir has stripped away a layer of skin everywhere it touched, left you raw. You clamp a hand over your mouth to ward off further attempts to put more of that foul-tasting liquid in your mouth -- and then you press down harder, enough that the pressure is painful, when you realize what you've done.

Saeran has taken a step back, perturbed by your reaction, but he's kept a firm grasp on the elixir. Now, he stares at you, expression unreadable. That alone is enough to knot your insides with fear.

“...leave us,” he says at last.

“The elixir--” One of the devotees protests, though you can sense some hesitance in their voice.

“The elixir will be taken,” Saeran snaps. “Initiation _will_ be finished. And punishment will be administered for this insolence. But it is not for your eyes. _Leave us._ ”

Oh god.

“I -- I'm sorry,” you stammer, watching the disciples file out through the door with mounting panic, “I didn't mean to, it was just -- the taste --” What kind of punishment could he mean, oh god--

He frowns sharply, glancing down at the bottle in his hands. “So after all that, it still wasn't sweet enough?” He murmurs.

Sweet? Now that it's no longer in your mouth, you can contemplate the aftertaste, and you suppose it _is_ sugary, but it was the initial taste of it -- burning sharp and acrid, like trying to swallow a mouthful of extra-strength cough syrup chased by a shot of rubbing alcohol -- that drew such a strong reaction from you, and you can’t imagine any amount of sweetness could have dulled that.

Saeran looks up from the bottle and you flinch, anticipating his harsh gaze -- but his expression is even. Contemplative. He runs a curled finger along your cheek. “I said I'd make it special for you,” he says. “If I couldn't do that with the additives… I can make it sweeter still for you.”

And he uncorks the bottle and brings it to his lips.

“Don't look so surprised,” he murmurs, a smirk playing at his lips, bottle held at an angle just before any of the elixir actually spills into his mouth, “But stay like that, with your lips parted. It'll be easier this way.”

And that's not hard when you're this dumbfounded. He’s -- messing with you? Or fooling them, for some reason? Or… both? But you don't have much time to think on this, because the next moment, he is fisting a hand in your shirt and pulling you in and sealing his mouth to yours.

There's a fleeting thought in that first moment -- _moving a little fast, aren't we, boss?_ \-- but you don't have long to dwell on it, not when he tangles a hand in your hair and tips your head back, and in comes the elixir.

You jolt at the taste, but he places a hand at the small of your back, holding you in place, finally you swallow.

He pulls away with a languid smile. “Good,” he says. “Just like that.” And he takes another drink of the elixir.

The look in his eyes as he lowers the bottle is expectant, and so you stay still, waiting for him to lean in again. What else could you do?

This time, when he presses his lips to yours, there's a tenderness to it. It's slower than before, less forceful and he brings one hand up to cup your face, fingertips brushing gentle circles against your cheekbone -- but the reason for it remains, and when you do not respond in kind and the kiss remains chaste, his hand against your face shifts and tugs you closer, pressing you more firmly to him.

You relent, lips parting. Immediately, he pulls you to an angle where the elixir spills into your mouth, not so cold this time, but just as bitter.

You gag, and the hand at your face slides down to stroke your throat, easing the strain. His tongue tangles with yours, and he lingers long after you swallow, but eventually he pulls away.

“Not so bad like this, hmm? Much sweeter this way?” he asks.

You suck in a shaky breath as he smirks. “...mhh,” you say, and you wrap your arms around his waist and rest your forehead against his shoulder just for an excuse to compose yourself and not have to deal with knowing that Saeran’s cocky expression is doing something to you.

Your fingers brush against the glass, held at his side, and you hesitate -- you could push it away, make it slip from his grasp so it spills out on the floor, no more elixir.

But… they'd just make more. And you have no doubt they'd punish you accordingly, so that won’t work.  Unless a miracle happens, you’re stuck taking it, and dealing with the aftermath.

You feel slightly warm everywhere the elixir has touched. Your lips tingle, a little like they’ve fallen asleep, a little… not. An interesting combination. You shift so you can press more of your face against his shoulder. Putting pressure there doesn’t hurt in that odd, achey way that it would if your lips were really falling asleep. Makes it feel a bit better, actually. It makes you want to kiss him again.

You squeeze your eyes tightly together. No, no, that’s -- not helpful here. Doesn’t get you a way out. But… there _is_ no way out of this, is there? Not here, not now. If there was a way to avoid this, you missed that turnoff long ago. ...and it _would_ at least make you feel a little better. You pull away and glance back at him, and when you see the look in his eyes, you flush.

His expression is -- hungry. Wanting. Still patient, surprisingly so, waiting for you to finish having your moment and continue your initiation, but… there is an expectation there -- no matter how long it takes, you _will_ drink this elixir, and you _will_ use  his method to do it.

Your breath shudders and you feel a flash of heat hit you and then settle low in your stomach. There's something else, too, something akin to shame for wanting this, but... you can't stop this anyway, you might as well enjoy the ride. The parts of it you _can_ enjoy, anyway; the elixir itself remains awful.

You’ve been holding back with him, hoping that keeping some distance would keep you safe, but fuck it, that didn't work. Your life is going to hell -- don't you deserve to have one last hurrah?

He notices your reaction and his smirk only grows more self-assured, broad enough that you can see it past the edges of the bottle as he raises it to take another mouthful of elixir. His hand drops to his side, and -- you really _do_ deserve at least _one_ moment of enjoyment, so you fist one hand in the back of his jacket and press yourself up against him, leaning in.

He makes a little noise of delight as your mouth opens, and though you still wince as the elixir fills your mouth, his _eager_ ministrations are… distracting, you must admit, enough that you swallow this mouthful with more ease than the others.

He nuzzles against your neck as you pant, places a kiss at your jaw, below your ear, then drags his teeth against the skin there there so that you shudder as he chuckles.

He lifts the bottle. Another drink, another kiss.

You bring up your arms to drape over his shoulders and tangle your fingers in his hair and tug lightly. Your arms press lightly against his neck, and like this, you can feel the smallest motions, every breath, how he shudders as you press against him, how he -- swallows?

...did he just drink some of the elixir meant for you? Because you… caught him off guard?

On the next mouthful of elixir, you immediately experiment, pressing into him and scraping your nails against his scalp even before he meets your mouth with his, and then when he does, you angle, chasing a position that keeps him from using gravity to pass it along to you, at least.

You tug at his hair again, and again, he shudders and swallows.

When he pulls away for another swig, you expect him to frown, to scold you, but instead he just looks… starry-eyed.

He raises the bottle with shaking hands, and overshoots the amount -- you watch as he swallows some just to get it out of the way, have a more manageable amount to pass on.

He doesn't seem to really notice that he's doing this, though, fixated only on you.

You're flattered. And intrigued by the plan you are now considering.

It's… not a great plan, admittedly. It doesn't save you from the effects of the elixir, not entirely, not since you're already starting to feel a little bit _funny_ in a way you can't quite pin down, and maybe it won't even lessen the effects by much, and _maybe_ it won't even matter in the end because you’ll have to drink the elixir another day, if this is supposed to be a regular addition to your schedule.

_But._

If you can distract him enough to get him to swallow some of the elixir each time he tries to pass some on to you, you could -- could --

Well, come out of this less fucked up.

There's a flash of guilt as you consider what this could mean. What will the elixir do to him? But the feeling fades, for the most part. He _did_ say he used to take it regularly, so whatever it'll do, it won't _hurt_ him, or… not much. Whatever effect it’s supposed to have on you should be even lesser on him.

So you meet him in a kiss, and as he opens his mouth, you tilt his head back again, slide your knee between his legs, and rub against him.

He gasps so hard you're afraid he might choke on the elixir -- that he swallows nearly all of, you note; you barely even taste it this time -- and then whines, high and needy.

_Oh_.

Heat spreads through you, along with a burning desire to hear more, to hear him come undone, so you do it again, sliding your thigh against his conspicuous arousal, and you are gratified with a _whimper_. The hand not holding the bottle slides to the small of your back and fists in the hem of your shirt, clutching at you desperately.

All the earlier smugness is gone, replaced with keening hunger, and he looks to you to sate it -- wantingly, pleadingly, placing it in your hand.

Control. There's a sense of satisfaction this realization brings you.

You tug the bottle from his hand, and he lets you examine it without protest, staring at you dopily as you tilt it to and fro, gazing at the liquid within.

There's a little more than half of the brilliantly colored elixir left. You've had a few mouthfuls, but you're not sure how much of that accounts for what’s missing. Saeran hasn't drank much yet, and you feel… alright at the moment, given how much you've had. Warm. A little dizzy, when you glance away from him and try to take in the room around you, but steady enough when you're focused just on what’s ahead of you.

Which doesn't mean that's _all_ you'll be feeling. There's already a sense of something off about you, but… there's nothing you can do about that now.

You lower the bottle a little, meet his gaze, uncork it, and take a swig. Ugh, it's bad even just sitting in your mouth. How can he stand it? But you’ll have to taste a lot more than just this sip if you don’t do this right.

You pull him closer with a hand gripping his jacket and, like before, it takes barely any effort to get him lost in the kiss enough to swallow another gulp of elixir.

Does he know what you're doing? Wouldn't he stop you if he did? Could he really be so lost in this, in _you_ , that he’s unaware of how much he’s drinking, how much you’ve flipped this whole thing back on him? But from the look in his eyes, glazed over and needy… maybe that’s not so hard to believe.

You nip at his lower lip as you pull away and he shudders. Now that he has both hands free, there’s nothing stopping him from touching as much of you as he can, and he seems to be rapidly becoming aware of this; you almost laugh as one of his hands slides down to your ass, but the way he grinds against you in the next moment makes you gasp, and the urge slips from your mind.

You lead him back little by little, never losing contact with him, until finally the back of his knees hit his chair and he sinks onto it.

You could get used to the way he's looking at you from this angle, eyes full of something like _worship_ as he gazes at you.

You let the bottle dangle from your fingers, almost carelessly, though you know you’d be absolutely fucked if anything happened to it right now.

You don’t even care if this is just an illusion of control. Right now, you have him practically eating out of the palm of your hand, and even if you’re just delaying it for a day, you’re still avoiding your fate, and that’s a heady feeling.

He squirms in protest that you’re not touching him, and you feel a twinge of -- fondness. That’s… something best left buried deep, ignored. But… still, it would be rude to leave him waiting, wouldn’t it?

You take another swig, straddle him, and kiss him.

He winds his arms around your waist immediately, and you tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging roughly, though still carefully; you’re not out to hurt him, just… play. If the way he bucks against you is any indication, he seems to approve.

This is -- not your best work, admittedly. It’s hard to focus on _technique_ when you’re also trying to pass along drug-filled elixir without swallowing much of it, and the result is sloppy and imprecise _._ A part of you feels _embarrassed_ at this fact, despite the situation, despite how desperately you need to focus on just making it through this.

But, you think as you lower yourself a little more and grind against him, grinning as he draws in a stuttery breath, nails digging into your hips, he doesn’t much seem to mind.

You break apart to take another drink of the elixir, and he whines at the loss of contact. You’re not sure he’s so far gone that he’s forgotten it entirely, but it’s clear that your initiation is no longer his top priority.  You, however, have survival on your mind -- even if part of you wants to throw caution to the wind and just sink into him. After all, there can’t be that much of it left, right? It couldn’t possibly cause _that_ much harm if you set the bottle aside and forgot about it, right…?

But of course it would. No use getting stuck on what you’d do if the elixir wasn’t an issue when that’s just not the reality you’re facing, so you take another swig.

Once you lower the bottle, he pulls you down by the collar of your shirt and cinches an arm around you, keeping you close.

He pushes up into you _just so_ and you gasp, jolting, but he doesn’t let you go, just holds you as you burn with the need to be touched _more more more,_ cradling you against him.

He slips his hands up the back of your shirt and tugs it up, and you know that if you don’t steel your resolve now, you’ll lose your focus and you _will_ be punished for not finishing the initiation -- and at this point, it might be less dangerous for you to drink the rest of it yourself than leave even a little bit untouched.

Still, you struggle to put enough distance between the two of you to bring the bottle close enough to drink from -- though only partly because of your reluctance to break away from him. _He_ doesn’t want you to, either, and he lets you know this by trying to pull you closer when you attempt to draw back, then leaning into you when this doesn’t work to keep you still. Finally, though, he relents, though there’s a slight pout to his lips.

He watches you hungrily as you tip the elixir into your mouth, knowing what comes next. It’s grown light, and you tip it up as high as you can, until there’s no more drops to catch.

You can’t really examine it to see just _how_ empty it is, if it’s well and truly drained or if you just need to work a little harder to get the last dregs out, not when you’re this distracted, not when he pushes it aside and kisses you so _ardently_.

He grinds against you again, and it’s enough to make you swallow half of what you’d taken into your mouth. It burns a path down your throat, but it doesn’t matter because you’re already burning, burning, burning. What’s a little more kindling to the fire?

Saeran pulls away and presses a kiss to your jaw, then down a little to your neck. He nips at the skin there, not hard enough to break the skin, not even close, but with enough pressure that you shiver pleasantly as he continues down to your collarbone.

You loosen your grip on the bottle and thread your fingers with his so you can press him closer to you, uncaring of where it ends up -- and it slips from your grasp, shattering noisily on the floor.

It registers dimly, first, as something unimportant, not noteworthy enough to stop you from arching against you as he bites down harder on the sensitive skin of your collarbone, then laves his tongue over the sore spot, but then there is a knock at the door and a sharp twinge of realization cuts through the haze of heat.

You jolt apart and stare at each other. Your face must be as red as his is right now. And then --

You laugh, both of you. Nervous and unsure, but matched.

You dip forward and press your face against his collarbone as heat spreads across your cheeks, too embarrassed to look at him. He chuckles shakily and combs his fingers through your hair. “So good…” He murmurs. “You've been so good…” His movements are clumsy, and while he’s definitely affectionate, he seems sheepish, maybe even a little self-conscious, now that you’re not so lost in each other. Then again, maybe not, since he continues to pet your hair, and… you can _feel_ the aftermath of your actions pressing against you, and the knock doesn’t seem to have had any impact on that.

There is another knock.

You shift to the side of the chair so he can rise with difficulty. For a moment, Saeran lingers, one hand still resting at the nape of your neck as though he wants to maintain contact with you as long as possible, to continue combing through your hair while he stands here, and then he pulls away slowly and teeters over to the door.

When it opens, you flinch back, hiding your face, certain that whoever stands on the other side will see you and _know_. But… you want to know what’s going on.

Slowly, you shift in the chair so that you can see the door. Saeran is leaning heavily on the doorframe, sagging against it, as he faces the disciples just outside the room.

“--should rest,” he's saying. “Help me make sure the way is clear, just up to the rooms, and then you may resume your usual duties.”

A part of you wants to laugh at how he's speaking, as though it it’s even possible to miss the influence the elixir has on him, but then -- you're not sure he realized how much he'd had. He certainly can't know how much more he's had of it than you.

You sag back against the chair as you listen. You're not sure if his posturing is particularly convincing to them, because he _certainly_ doesn't seem lucid to you, but they do not protest. He has enough power to manage that, at least. Thank god. Maybe you can pull this off.

And then there is a new voice.

“What,” it says, “is going on here?”

It's like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over your head, ice seeping through the warm haze given by the elixir. You flinch back, curling further into the chair as you hear the cold, clear sound. You recognize the speaker -- and she does not sound pleased.

“Ah, savior!” Saeran, on the other hand, sounds ecstatic. “I have performed the initiation. The elixir has been administered. Paradise has now officially gained a new member.” His voice is drunk with delight.

“Oh? And how does our new recruit fare?”

Your pulse races. Oh no. She sees Saeran, sees how _unusual_ he’s acting, and knows you can't have taken much of the elixir, or else she _will_ know soon.

Unless you can convince her otherwise, somehow. Is that even possible?

You peer down at the ground. The bottle is shattered, but there is no puddle, no elixir wasted, no sign that even a drop has gone undrunk. There's definitely no way to hide the fact that Saeran has swallowed some, but maybe you can convince her that you've swallowed more. Now, how to do it?

“I think I should give a warm welcome to the newest member of paradise.”

You’d better figure it out, and fast, because she's coming your way.

\-- how is Saeran affected by it, and how can you mimic that?

He’s unsteady on his feet, flushed and hazy, slow to react and so dazed by whatever drugs are in the elixir that he hardly seems present. So how can you convince her that you're the same, if not worse?

You're sitting, so that excuses the lack of unsteadiness, and you can fake contentment, you think, or you _must_ be able to fake it, but the rest -- how to look affected? Red-faced, hazy? You think back to the look on his face when you'd finally broken apart, bright-eyed and feverish and wanting, and you can feel your face flush and --

_Ah_.

There's no time to do -- anything else, really. It’s barely a plan, but it’s all you can think to do as you hear her footsteps drawing nearer.

So you squeeze your eyes shut tight and think of -- his lips on yours, his hands sliding down your waist to rest on your hips, the hunger in his eyes, the desperation, the way he looked at you first as if he wanted to devour you and then as if he wanted to be devoured --

And then you are startled from your thoughts by a finger under your chin, lifting your head as your vision is abruptly filled by the savior’s face. Her gaze is appraising, critical as she leans in to examine you. You can only hope you’re sufficiently flushed and looking distracted enough to fool her.

“--savior.” Breathless as you are, the word comes out on a gasp. Her eyes continue to roam across your face, and though it's difficult to avoid getting caught up in examining her back, looking for something in her expression that will tell you what she has found, you know you must, or else give up your ruse immediately. You turn your thoughts as best you can to what you had been doing just want to before, in this very chair, his fingers tangled in your hair, nails scraping at your scalp, the angle of his hips against yours, his shallow little pants and desperate, aching moans.

“Hmmm.” It's all she says before letting you go and turning to look to her side, where you now see that Saeran stands.

“...you've broken my bottle,” she says, and there's a sort of relief that this observation brings -- she _must_ see that there's only shards left behind, no other spill.

This marrs his happiness, but only marginally. He nods slowly, a trace of remorse flickering across his features before his nodding intensifies, the smile returning to his face full-force.

“I thought of how to give the elixir and make it easy! I--” He glances around furtively, and when he glances at you, he leans in to whisper in her ear.

You hear him murmuring, and despite not being able to make out the words, there's a pang of embarrassment as you imagine what he must be saying, explaining his brilliant plan of _giving it mouth-to-mouth_.

When he straightens, the savior raises a brow. “Clever.” Her voice is flat.

He nods again. “I think--” He hesitates, then leans in again, but his whisper this time is less restrained, so you catch the tail end of what he says. “-- _likes me_.”

It's sweet in its innocence, and you find yourself flushing once more at the sentiment.

A smile crosses her face. “Of course,” she says. “Who wouldn't? It’s what you deserve.”

He beams, and the strength of his joy makes him sway on his feet.

“Now,” she says, “while this has been a joyous occasion, there is still _work_ to be done.” She heaves a sigh. “I suppose the _both_ of you will have to wait until the morning. For now, you will be returning to your respective rooms.” She sighs again, softer, and mutters, “Perhaps a night of rest will wring some usefulness out of you.” Louder, she says, “Saeran, whatever you can bring with you, I want it up there. You’ll have all the help you need to make it happen. These are… precarious times. It would not do to be caught unaware. Am I understood?”

You look up at her through your eyelashes. The breath you draw in to speak shakes. “Yes, my savior.” Saeran echoes you a heartbeat later, just slightly off.

“Good.” She gives a satisfied nod. “Now, come along.” And she holds out a hand.

It takes so long to register what she's asking of you that you end up just staring blankly at her outstretched hand. You only move when she tsks her tongue, spurred on by the thought of what she might do if she grows annoyed. Her face smooths out when you take her hand and allow her to help you up.

“I trust everything will be fine here in my absence?” she asks. Saeran looks at you and hesitates, and you can only guess at why he might be given pause. You can’t be sure, though -- does he just want to accompany you, or is he growing suspicious of how unwell he feels?

God, you really are feeling the effects of the elixir, even given how little you drank. This would be a cinch to figure out normally.

But then he nods.

“Good,” says the savior, and then she is tugging you along.

You look back over your shoulder at him as you are led away, but though you do still see traces of conflict on his face, he offers you a smile, apparently entirely convinced of your well-being in the savior’s hands.

You lean heavily on her as you walk, which you thought would be just an act, but as she leads you further down the hallway towards the stairs, you find that your feet don't seem to want to cooperate very much, and the hold on her arm is all that keeps you from teetering into a wall.

This, of course, does not go unnoticed. “How are you feeling?” She asks as the pair of you round a corner and you stumble a little.

Your heart rate spikes. You're not sure how well you can keep up the act when you have to speak. Still, you must respond.

“...strange,” you say at last.

“Anything else?” You reach the locked door, and as she types the code with delicate motions, you consider the question.

“Light, but also… not.” Light head, heavy feet, except when you think about it, and then it seems to switch. “And… warm and tired and…” You hesitate, then hazard a guess. “...safe?”

“Safe is good,” she says with a chuckle, “and the rest, well… that's to be expected.” She pats the hand you have on her elbow. “Don't worry. You'll soon be used to it.”

You nod faintly. Another corner, and you see the stairs.

The moment you place your foot onto the first step, she asks you, casual as can be, “so, Saeran used a rather unconventional method to give you the elixir, I’m told.”

You're so surprised you lose your balance and pitch forward a little before she pulls you back towards her. You cling to her arm. 

“...yes,” you say as she begins to help you up the stairs. Is she mad? Is she accompanying you to scold you? Punish you? ...give you more elixir? “I guess so. I've never been initiated before. I wouldn't really know what it's like usually. Was mine very different?” You're finding it hard to keep your eyes open. There's much less spinning if they're closed.

She laughs lightly. “From what he said, I don't believe anyone has ever joined paradise quite like you did.” Your pulse stutters, then speeds up, hammering so hard it hurts. “Have you any idea _why_?”

“He… thought it would be sweeter.” God, you're done for.

“Oh?” Her tone is curious. You're walking blind and unsteady and growing more and more dizzy, and she wants you to _elaborate?_ That’s just mean.

“It was bitter,” you say. You draw in another breath to speak, and you're suddenly aware of how dry your mouth feels. “Didn't like it,” you finish, too tired to wax poetic on the subject.

“And was it?” You round the corner with her. If she lets you go once you get to your room, then the end is in sight. “Sweet,” she clarifies. “Did it help?”

“Uh-huh,” you say. Bashful might be a good way to react. Mirror Saeran. You rest your head against her arm, hiding your face in her sleeve, but her body temperature through her robes is so much cooler than yours that you feel perfectly content to just stay there. “...means well.”

“Oh, that he does. He means the best.”

When you reach the door to your room, your legs go weak with relief -- not that this is particularly different from how you've been faring up until this point.

“Well,” she says, opening your door for you. “It's a busy day tomorrow, though you may not be up for the most… strenuous of tasks. Still, you should sleep; you’ll need your rest.”

She nudges you gently so you break apart and put some distance between the two of you, then tilts her head and stares into your eyes.

Your skin prickles the longer she watches you, and though you know this must be some sort of assessment, you’re not feeling particularly deft on your feet and you wish she would just say her piece and punish you if that's what’s going to happen so you can get this over and sleep -- and then, at last, she smiles, apparently pleased with what she sees.

You've… passed? You seem sufficiently -- affected?

Relief makes you smile in return, wide and dopey, and the savior chuckles.

She takes your hand again and helps you through the doorway. It’s a good thing, too -- while it's only a short distance from the door to the bed, what you're feeling as you walk doesn't really register as anything you recognize; sort of like walking on marshmallows. That… can't be right, but you wobble along anyway. It's with immense relief that you finally sink onto the edge of the bed.

When she lets go of you, you teeter, but manage to catch yourself by clutching at the bedsheets.

“Careful,” she cautions. “And mind that you actually _rest_ , or else this transition will be… rather unpleasant.” Softer, “or more unpleasant, anyway.” She shakes her head and reaches to smooth down your hair. “But -- rest now. Someone will be by to check on you in the morning, and if you're well enough, you may return to the work.”

“...thank you, my savior.”

“Your diligence is appreciated.” She smiles at you, then leans in quickly and -- drops a quick kiss on your forehead.

You blink once. Twice.

But you really don't have the wherewithal to think of anything but sleep, so you just stare at her blearily as you pull off your shoes and try to feel for the edge of the covers to cocoon yourself.

She chuckles softly and pats your head. “Sleep well.”

You nod as she turns and heads out the door, and when it closes behind her, you are left in perfect darkness.

You can't actually be sure that you've actually pulled the covers up over yourself by the time your head hits the pillow, but you can no longer struggle with them, can do nothing but curl up and hope that if you squeeze your eyes tight enough, it will ward off the queasy feeling that's unsettling your stomach and threading pain beneath your skin.

And in the night you burn.

The elixir is a slow-acting poison, and you were a fool to think you could escape its effects.

You sleep for a time, you think, but you are awoken by heat, creeping through you until you radiate it, strong enough that you cannot possibly ignore it, and gathering enough peace of mind to sleep it off is an impossibility.

At some point in the night, it's bad enough that stumble to the bathroom to splash water on your face, hoping to cool yourself down in some measure, and it works, a little -- but once you get there, the journey back to bed seems long and arduous, and you fall onto weak knees, with water dripping down your chin, and stay there for who knows how long.

You remain until the heat begins to seep from you, and you seize the opportunity to gather your strength and rise.

It feels a monumental victory when you manage to stumble back into bed, and then you curl up and hug your knees and you shiver as you form a nest of blankets around you, shiver so hard you can hear your teeth chattering as you try to wring every bit of warmth from this bed as you can.

But it grows to a point that you find unbearable, and you are sobbing dryly into your bedsheets before you remember.

_Saeran._

He said you could visit him if you needed help, if you reacted badly to the elixir. He showed you his room, made sure you could find your way there from here.

You have no idea how he could help, but the idea that he might provide _some_ sort of relief from this pain urges you out of bed.

You wince when your bare feet land against the carpet, the texture somehow too much to process, and pull a blanket to wrap around you as you pad over to the door and start down the hall.

Your symptoms persist as you walk. Cold flash, hot flash, cold flash, hot.

You steady yourself with a palm pressed to the wall, an anchor point to your addled brain to tell you which way is up, keep you from falling heels over head.

The journey is not too long a distance, but it seems to take hours. Still, you inch along, and, at last, reach his door and knock.

It takes a moment, but then you can hear some shuffling noises from the other side which grow louder and louder until finally the door opens, and you are presented with the sight of a sleep-mussed Saeran on the other side.

He looks worse than you by far, all bleary eyes and unsteadiness, swaying on his feet, but guilt doesn't put your pain in perspective, it just makes you feel worse for having to feel this and know that he, too, is suffering.

“Help,” you croak. It’s all you can manage.

Something in his face softens, vulnerability upon vulnerability. Immediately, he reaches for you, and you could _cry_ when his arms wrap around you, warm and somehow solid, even with how he trembles with the same tremors that wrack your body.

“Help,” you repeat raggedly. The word becomes both a plea and a question -- you can’t do this on your own, you _can’t_ , but you made him hurt, too, and yet all he wants to do is soothe you, and how are you helping him? You don’t feel capable of much right now, and you’re barely keeping yourself conscious, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting to ease his pain. The frustration of this, all of this, makes tears prick at your eyes.

“Shhh…” he murmurs. “It's alright. You'll be alright.”

He pulls you into the room on wobbling steps but in a firm embrace, and helps you to the bed. His arms stay wrapped around you all the while, and when you finally reach the edge of his bed and sink down, he nuzzles into you.

You are grateful for his warmth, for the brush of skin against skin that shakes the trembling chill from you, but more than this, you are grateful for the steadiness he provides, and you find that sleep does not seem so distant a goal when you wind your arms around his neck and let him murmur reassurances into your hair.

When you wake again, it is still dark, and you do not feel remotely well -- in fact, your throat feels unbearably, painfully dry. You sit up the moment you have this realization, heedless of the dizziness this might bring.

You're not sure if the impulsiveness is from the drugs or if it's just an outlet from the build-up of nervous energy from having to endure a day like today, but it goes better than you might have expected -- your head swims, but you don’t wobble too badly. You might actually be able to walk better now.

You begin to extricate yourself from his arms with care, but pause when your movements make him stir. He reaches out for you blindly, curling his hand around your arm, the first thing he touches, and mumbles something indistinct but content. You find yourself smiling as you watch him, and you reach to brush some hair from his eyes. A slow, sleepy smile stretches across his face, and your breath catches. You push aside his hair again, but linger this time, trailing your hand tenderly down his cheek.

But, much as you’d like to stay and bask in this moment, you know that if you don’t do something about your throat, the pain will grow to be too much, so you pull away gently and slip out of bed.

You wobble to his bathroom on slow steps, but you no longer feel as though you’re going to fall through the floor, and you feel a slight measure of pride when you reach the sink and lay your hands on the cool marble countertop. You're not sure if the effects of the elixir are fading already or if you're just in an in-between stage of its symptoms and you're about to face a painful extreme. You twist a knob on the sink and hope for the former.

You gulp down handful after handful of water until you feel pleasantly full. The water takes away some of that feverish ache throughout your body, too, thankfully.

You glance at the mirror above the sink as you begin to turn off the water, but avert your gaze quickly. God, you look awful. After a moment of hesitation, you scrub at your face, but it doesn’t help. Oh, well. At least you feel better.

You twist the knob, and as the water shuts off, you feel a brief pang of relief. In the sudden quiet of the night, its noise seems amplified; letting it run again seems as though it would be introducing much too much noise into otherwise silence.

...it _is_ remarkably quiet, isn't it? Silent and still with the disciples gone to bed? No one in the halls, no one to run into.

Would the other halls be like that too? If you left this room and walked down the stairs, walked out the door, would they be _quiet_ too? No one to stop you if you were to wander elsewhere, just as no one stopped you on your way here?

Is there anything to keep you from checking? Maybe you could learn something important here.

You peer into the bedroom. Saeran is sleeping soundly. A part of you aches to crawl back under the covers, but another part is excited by the possibility of learning something that could help you escape later. Might as well have a look now, while you’re able.

You flip off the bathroom light and creep back into the bedroom, crack open the door to the hallway, peer out both ways, and… nothing. Not a soul to be found. The coast is clear.

...it would only take a minute or two to check if the floor below is as clear as this one is. There’s no way he’d wake and notice your absence if you came back straight away, right?

...you don’t exactly have to come back to him -- you have your own room now, after all -- but if you’re going to sleep more, well… you _want_ to do it here, with him. He has nothing to chase away the strangeness of the elixir save for his presence, and yet that alone is enough for you.

With the light from the hall, dim as it may be, you take another look around the room. You’ll need a way to get back into his bedroom if you leave, so what could you use to prop open the door?

Ah, there -- on his dresser. His laptop, surrounded by a tangle of cords. Chargers, you find as you draw nearer to them. Too many to just be for the laptop, though you don’t see anything else they could be for.

Did he grab these, or did the disciples? Was it their unfamiliarity that made this misstep, or his own clouded thinking? Either way, it serves you well. You extricate one of the cords from the web as best you can, and return to the door.

It’s thick, but you coil it up anyway, just to be sure it’ll provide enough surface area to hold the door for you until you get back. You step through the door and wedge the cord against the doorframe and, to your relief, it seems to work; you should be able to push it open with no problem when you’re ready to come back.

And so you head towards the stairs.

There's a lingering wobble to your walk, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to lessen a sudden wave of dizziness and guide yourself by touching the wall until you reach the top of the stairs, but you make it there, and with far less unsteadiness than on your journey to his room.

Navigating the stairs is still a tricky affair, but you manage it with the help of the railing, and find yourself standing before the double doors that lead to the rest of the floor below. You place your hand on the wood and push.

You peer out into the darkness and listen for one heartbeat, two, three… but it remains silent and still,no matter how long you wait. Good. That’s not enough, though; you have to know if the rest of it is truly empty. You begin to step through the doorway -- then pause.

Hmm. Right. There's a keypad here, too, on the other side. Getting out is fine, but you can't exactly go wandering and come back just as easy.

...fuck, you’ve gotta go back again, don’t you? You nearly groan as you consider how long it’ll take, but begin to trudge up the stairs anyway.

You’re able to keep your eyes open half the time on your way back -- that’s good, right?

You slip into Saeran’s bedroom as quietly as you can, and head once more for the dresser. You pluck another charging cord from where it dangles off the side, then pause. Just in case you _do_ run into someone, it might be wise to have a cover. After a moment of contemplation, you decide that carrying around his laptop should do the trick. It shouldn’t be too odd to see you wandering, so long as you’re being useful and watching feeds, especially after today.

And… the carpet in here is forgiving, but there’s tile in the rest of the building -- you might not be out long enough to need shoes, but you’ll want something to lessen the cold of that against your bare feet. You still feel weak enough that a setback like _too much cold_ might just make you sink to the floor and curl up for warmth, and that’s… not something you want to do. Navigating to your bedroom does not sound like an appealing option right now, though, so you begin to dig through his dresser with nary a sense of shame, looking for something that’ll lessen the sting of icy tile.

It actually takes you a minute to notice it, focused as you are on examining his wardrobe choices -- there aren’t a lot of options here, and you can’t exactly pull them out and hold them up for a better look, but you’re not surprised with what you find.  More spikes and studs, lots of leather or faux-leather, all in black or dark reds -- it seems he settled on an aesthetic and stuck with it. But as you’re about to declare the first drawer a bust, your fingers brush against something cold, and you pull it free.

\-- your phone?

It's been in here, not somewhere in the workroom? Or… did he grab it and take it along with him when he brought up his laptop?

You wonder if it has any charge. If it's bugged. If it can be tracked any easier than a phone he hasn't yet touched. ...if you could still it to get help somehow. Carefully, you press the power button. Nothing. You’re not sure whether that’s good or bad right now.

And then you frown and shove it into your pocket anyway. It’s _your_ fucking phone and it’s rude of him to keep it from you. Even if it is currently dead.

You find what you were seeking in the second drawer -- a pair of socks that are a little too big on you, and fairly dusty, too, but still warm. And you need warmth right now.

At this thought, you turn and look to Saeran where he’s still sound sleep. Unsurprisingly, he looks as though he’s still struggling with the effects of the elixir, his brow slightly furrowed and a residual feverish flush to his face, but in sleep, he looks so vulnerable, so… soft. His arm tossed to the side, stretched over the spot where you had been until recently, as if you were still there for him to curl up against. _He’s_ certainly warm. If you gave up this surveillance quest, you could crawl back into bed with him. It probably wouldn’t take more than a nudge to get his arms around you again.

But you have to know. And… you can come back to him later. 

You leave with his laptop tucked under your arm and a strange longing for his touch that you really shouldn’t have, after being subjected to weeks of what he’s like when he’s clingy.

It doesn’t matter. You’ll go down, check the place out, get a good idea of what the nightly routine is like for future escape plans, and be back in bed in a few minutes. And once you have the door by the stairs propped open -- easily done, and it seems like the cord will stay wedged there thankfully -- you start to feel a flicker of hope that escape may still be in the cards for you after all.

When you're in a clearer state of mind, there's a lot you could do with this information, so you'd better take advantage of the opportunity. Who’s out and about at this hour? How many guards would you have to evade? In the interest of avoiding said guards and actually making it back without arousing suspicion, you’ll probably have to guess at the answers to these questions by taking quick peeks around some corners rather than committing to seeing everything in detail, but that’s still _something_ , and you’ll probably find a way to make what you see useful, right?

Your nervousness is low as you make your way down the hallway. Here, at least, is familiar to you, and though you’re supposed to be sleeping upstairs, it seems unlikely that anyone would see you and find it suspicious, unless you happen to cross paths with the savior herself.

You pass by one of the bathrooms and, because you're struck with a burning curiosity to know just how empty paradise is at this hour, you push open the door and poke your head in. It's quiet. Unused.

The rest of the doors are closed and, most likely, locked -- or, if the bedrooms here are like yours, _not_ locked, but that’s not a theory you’re going to test out. You pass them by and continue on, walking past the workroom -- you’ve never seen the door closed with you not inside it before tonight. It’s still strange.

Descending the stairs doesn’t bring any new wariness with it, but when you near the throne room, you slow, pressing yourself closer to the wall opposite it, listening for any sign of the savior.

For a long, long moment, you wait, heart in your throat and the seeds of doubt beginning to sprout in your mind, suddenly questioning the wisdom of your plan. But you hear nothing.

And you’re already almost done, so little ground left to cover, that giving up and running back would be an unacceptable concession.

The elixir feels like a step back from the progress you were hoping to make, another tie to bind you to this place, heavier than the ones before, now that you’ve been initiated and are expected to reside further from the way out, and even if you don’t manage to piece together a more detailed picture of Mint Eye for an escape, making this attempt is reclaiming a small sliver of control that you so desperately lack. As long as you do this, you know that at least you still have enough of yourself, can _think_ enough to rebel.

And god, given how bad you feel after just one night of the elixir, even when it was so much less than what was intended for you get, you don’t know how much longer that will last.

Onward, then, on light, careful footsteps.

As you round the corner, you can’t help but look back over your shoulder, into the open double doors that lead to her chapel. It’s distant, but you _do_ see something -- light. The candles you saw earlier, flickering so far away you can barely see them. No guarantee that she’s around, but it would be best to finish scoping out the place and head back as soon as possible, to lessen any possibility of running into her.

The kitchen, just a few steps away, is empty, silent save for the hum of the refrigerators. You could raid the cupboards, but if the savior found you down here with a bread roll stuffed in your mouth, you don't think she'd be particularly pleased.

So, then, there’s just the hallways left to assess. Unless you manage to scale those impressive walls in the garden, this is the sole path to your freedom, which also happens to constantly under guard, at least from what you've seen. Then again, given that you haven’t yet run into anyone tonight, maybe you’ll continue luck out.

You pad along, pausing before turning the corner, another knot of dread coiling in your stomach. It doesn't help that the temperature is noticeable cooler here, and you shiver as the cold seeps into you. It brings a wave of weakness that sweeps over you and makes you wobble and stumble -- and though you catch yourself before falling flat, the laptop slips just enough from your grasp to hit the wall noisily.

You freeze.

_Shit_.

Pulse racing, you peer tentatively past the wall, and oh, shit shit shit, it _is_ guarded, and they're _looking your way._ Okay, you can -- you can salvage this. You… don’t really have another option.

You can't go back now -- well, no, technically you _can_. You have a head start. But you're still feeling fairly dizzy, so your feet might slip out from under you if you tried to run, and you're not sure how distinctive you are at a distance, but it feels like there’s a decent chance that they’d recognize you. And maybe not, but fuck, if they did, there's no _way_ the savior would see this as anything other than an escape attempt; you _have_ to dispel that impression.

So you take a deep breath, turn the corner, and approach.

For a moment, you just stand before them, silent and frightened, before you speak at last. “So… nice night, isn't it?” It’s -- dumb as hell, but all that comes to mind.

There is silence.

“And a… very busy night,” you say. You heft the laptop up as if to prove it. “Lots of work to be done. Direct from the savior, very important, you understand.” As the words leave your mouth, you wince.

Oh, damn it, you sound so _fake_. The way your acting skills have been tonight, you wouldn’t even make the cut for a cheesy B movie. God, this won't work at all, you're done for. Why didn't you just turn back? Ran up the stairs back to Saeran, let him try to soothe you some more, forgotten about this bad idea?

They look at each other, then at you. The hoods over their faces keep you from seeing much of their expressions, and you're starting to panic when they nod -- and then they step aside.

It takes you a moment to process why they've done this, but they have given you room to step outside past them and follow the path to the garage.

...they're letting you through? Just like that? You didn't have to say anything else, they just assume you know what you're doing, assume that you're allowed to be here, no fuss, no questioning?

Dumbstruck as you are, you stand there for far longer than you should, far longer than you have any reason to, but still, they are silent. The one on the left shifts a little in a way that suggests curiosity, or confusion more likely, but you remain unquestioned. God, is this your luck finally coming around or -- are you really _one of the savior’s favorites_?

And at this moment, it doesn't matter, because if you don't move, you're going to look _far_ too suspicious, so -- you step outside, out into crisp, clean air.

Crisp and _cold_. Oh, god, is it ever cold, and even more when you begin to follow the stepping stone path that winds away from the building you are leaving behind. Every step makes it starker, though your shock at the situation numbs you to what could be the worst of it.

That worked… really well. You could use this again in the future, most likely -- though perhaps not for long. If they report back to the savior, she’ll know you had no reason to be out here, and she won’t let it happen again. Still, at least for tonight, you managed to bluster your way through on sheer bullshittery. You give the laptop in your arms an idle pat. It makes a decent cover. You’re beginning to grow fond of this battered thing.

When the garage comes into view, a little shock goes through you. Somehow you hadn’t expected to actually make it here. And you _do_ know the code to this one -- simpler than the others you’ve encountered today, just 6 digits, you’ve heard the different tones each time you left and returned with Saeran. Though your blindfold remained fixed in place until yesterday, the first time you could actually _see_ the numbers, you know you’re choosing the right ones by the familiar beeps.

Your footsteps echo as you pad inside, taking a few shaky steps in darkness before remembering the light switch.

The fluorescent lights flicker on slowly, the buzz growing ever more audible as the garage brightens.

When the realization hits, you have to mull it over for a while to really take it in. You have, perhaps, undergone a bit too much to fall to your knees in shock, and so instead it just feels as though the life is draining out of you, and you are filling up with energy, surging forth, making you tremble with the sheer force of it because --

You… did it. You got here. You passed what few guards there were, you’re not being chased down by anyone, you _know where the goddamn key is_.

You could _leave_ , _right now_.

The laptop falls from your slack fingers and hits the ground with a decisive clatter. For all it's survived, this may have been its swan song.

You walk on unsteady feel to the car and reach under the fender to grab the key. If you had been wearing the blindfold yesterday, you wouldn’t have had the faintest idea that he stashed the key on top of the wheel. Your hand shakes as you begin to unlock the door, then fumble for the handle with increasingly frantic motions.

It opens, and you nearly fall into it in your haste.

You could leave, you could put the key in the ignition and drive away, you could get out of here and be free and never see any of these people again, and --

You pause, poised to start the engine with a twist of your wrist.

_Saeran._

He could still find you again. Even if you got out, he could track you down and bring you back here.

But… Seven was able to foil Saeran’s hacking attempts, and now he knows something's going on, and you _should_ still have the RFA app on your phone… Once it's got some charge in it, you could get ahold of him and warn him and he might be able to help somehow, _should_ be able to help somehow, protect the RFA at least and guard against further attacks. And maybe if you can get to them -- well, they’re still out there and not in _here_ like the savior wants, so even if it takes time to deal with Mint Eye, they might be able to keep you from being dragged back here.

As long as you can get out of here and contact them, you don't even have to worry about being tracked down, do you? You could just drive away now. There's nothing you need to go back for, you have everything you'd need to escape already here with you and you wouldn't be leaving anything behind.

Except him.

Oh, god. He would feel so betrayed. And you, damn it all, _care about that_.

You rest your forehead on the steering wheel, hands gripping it tightly.

You wish you didn't care, but the thought of how he'd react if he woke and you weren't there, if he couldn't find you, if he saw that the laptop and your phone and the _car_ were missing is --

Your nails dig into the steering wheel.

...he trusts you.

Unless you slip back quietly into bed and live out the rest of your life as a willing participant to a cult, you're going to be betraying that trust one way or another tonight.

Leave, and he'll be mourning your absence, left believing that you were using him, which is true, and that you felt nothing for him after all, which is -- well -- untrue. Or else, you _try_ to leave and get caught and he’d be left… disappointed. _Betrayed._ You're not sure how he would act then, if what would win out would be relief that you stayed with him, however unwillingly, or if you would then bear a portion of the rage he directs towards those _other_ traitors.

Either way, you lose him.

And you _can’t_.

No matter how hard you tried to guard against it, no matter how implausible it once seemed, somehow, he has made himself _important_ to you, made you care enough that you cannot accept leaving him here to be punished for letting you escape, leaving him to continue _living like this_.

He's -- not a good person. He's complicit in so much shady shit, he's organizing kidnapping and all too ready to ruin lives. He treated you like a _doll_ when you first got here, and you’re not even sure that he’s stopped doing that now.

But maybe he wouldn't be such a shit if he was out of here? You can't guarantee that, though, and you have no reason to think that except -- that you know if you leave him behind you will rip open all his old wounds of betrayal and loneliness, and you may not know what _exactly_ caused those in the first place but you know they're deep. You get the feeling there's something that happened a long time ago, something bad that he still aches over, something Seven betrayed him for, or didn't protect him from, but you don't know how he came to be here or why or -- how much of this he chose.

If you went back for him, he could alert the others. Have you caught before you even stepped foot outside the doors.

And maybe he wouldn't. Maybe you could bring him with you, maybe he really would be better once he was out.

He can be so… affectionate. Caring. He holds you like he's desperate for some form of kindness, an accepting touch, and maybe, maybe, if there's even some part of him that came here unwillingly, you could help, and -- and --

You sag in your seat. And... the risk doesn't matter. _You_ can't bear it any other way. You have to go back.

After some hesitation, you wedge your phone under the driver’s seat. If anything happens, if it all goes wrong… maybe this will be hidden enough to reach again, if you're afforded another opportunity, another chance to make this work.

God, you hope it doesn't come to that. You don’t think anything could save you at that point.

You climb out of the car slowly, somewhat in disbelief that you're doing this.

...the laptop is a bust. You'll just… leave its broken husk here.

There’s nothing besides that you might have any need for, and so you leave the garage, heart pounding in your chest as you follow the path back, as you nod to the guards, as you head up the stairs and through the door you propped open.

At his door, you pause. This is it. There's no going back if you do this. Unaware as he may be of how deeply he has shaken you, your fate is now intertwined with his; whatever happens after this moment will be a direct result of the choice you make now.

And you push open the door.

He sleeps still, looking peaceful -- though you watch him shiver and a frown passes over his face as you approach and the sound of your footsteps begin to wake him.

You kneel by the bed, hesitate, then reach for him.

“Hey,” you murmur, “Saeran.”

You shake him lightly, and finally, he cracks open an eye. A smile blooms over his face when he sees you.

You try to keep your voice light, soft but cheerful. “Saeran,” you repeat. “You wanna go for a walk?”

His face twists in confusion. “...a walk?” His voice is husky, muddled by sleep.

You nod. “Uh-huh. I feel… too antsy just staying still. Can't sleep. But I…” And here you tilt your head, casing your eyes bashfully to the ceiling. “...don't want to be without you.”

His smile turns warmer. “Alright,” he murmurs, “if it helps.”

Relief spreads through you as he pushes the covers off, then sits up, tosses his legs over the side of the bed, and rolls his shoulders.

“Your jacket,” you remind him. “and shoes. It's cold.” Especially if you actually make it out.

“Mmm… not with you.” He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer so he can nuzzle into your neck.

You laugh softly, petting his hair before pulling away. “It’ll be a little colder than that,” you say. “Please? I don't want you to be cold because of me.”

You can feel him smile against you. “Fine,” he says, “...still gonna hold  you.”

But he does let go of you long enough to do as you asked.

Given how unsteadily he pulls on his shoes and the way he wobbles as he stands and grabs his jacket, he might need that support anyway.

The jacket should make a marked difference against the chill, much more than the sleeveless shirt he always wears. Somehow, though, it doesn't do much to make him look less vulnerable.

You slide an arm around his waist once he's ready to go, and he does the same, pulling you close and resting his head against your shoulder.

The lingering effects of the elixir become more obvious as you lead him from the room. You feel him shiver the moment the door closes behind you, and it seems to take an eternity to descend the stairs without stumbling off of it, an eternity in which you fear you'll be found out.

But he's willing to follow you, and as long as you continue like this, it should be fine, just fine, everything will go smoothly and no one will have reason to stop you and it'll all be _fine_.

You marvel again at your remarkable luck up until someone, a disciple you don't recognize, comes out of the bathroom and nearly walks right into the pair of you. As much as it startles you, there's a part of you that feels vindicated. Take that, self-doubt, it _was_ a smart idea to check the bathroom earlier. You keep your gaze as steady as you can and meet their eyes. Their hood is down, so you can see them stop in surprise, then… bow their head in deference until you pass them.

You could cry in relief, but instead you just wrap your arm more tightly around him and carry on.

He's so comfortable with this position that he's practically falling asleep against you, and you have to coax him into watching his steps as you lead him down the final set of stairs.

You hold your breath as you start the long trek past the throne room, some part of you remembering the old superstition about graveyards, thinking that if it works there, it'll work here, and keep you safe, but it fades behind you without incident, and then you are standing at the corner.

Your heart hammers. This is it. You'll either make it or your plans will all fall apart in an instant.

But confidence is key, so you smooth out your expression as best you can and help Saeran wobble towards the doors. You pause before them with as much self-assurance as you can muster. They give you a dubious look, but… you're _one of the savior's favorites_ , and Saeran is _definitely_ one, too. If they didn't stop you before, they won't try to stop you now -- or at least, they wouldn't stop _him_.

“Look at how lovely it is right now,” you remark, purposely shifting to get Saeran's attention. He raises his head with some difficulty and squints out into the night. “Perfect for a walk, wouldn't you agree?”

His eyes pass unseeingly over the disciples before tightening his grip around you and humming a contented note. “Mm _hmm_.”

Please let that seem natural enough.

You still can’t see their expressions, but whatever they may think of this, they let you pass. 

One step, two steps, three, four, as calmly as you can manage before the waiting is too much and then you quicken your pace, caught up in the need to run up the path to the garage. As it is, you go as fast as he’ll allow when he's barnacle-stuck to your side, which doesn't feel nearly enough with stakes this high.

He doesn't question you until you walk with him to the passenger side and help him into the seat, buckling his seatbelt around you, and then he blinks bleary eyes up at you and puts a hand over yours weakly. “What…?”

“It's okay, boss,” you say. “You can sleep, I don't mind. I'm just happy to have you here with me.” You deliberately don't acknowledge where you are or what you're doing, but this reassurance seems to put him at ease, and he snuggles into the seat and lets his eyes close.

You watch him for a moment, scarcely daring to breathe, but after a long moment passes where he remains as he is, you shut his door and hurry over to the other side, sliding into the driver’s seat.

You buckle your seatbelt with shaking hands, set your shoulders in a firm line, and try not to let doubts creep in, in that half-second you wait for the engine to start.

And then you drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge shoutout to maddy and niku for helping me edit this monster of a chapter (25 pages!!!). the next chapter will... not be up anywhere near as quickly as this one was, lmao. i needed to get to this point before the ray route was released tho just for the sake of my own pride.  
> also i know the chapter title isn't in the usual format but that's because this chapter just Is the chorus of the esteemed CRJ's making the most of the night, and also when this chapter was one big megachapter with the last one i was gonna use 9's chapter title for it so. that's just how it turned out.  
> anyway............... hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading, if i don't upload another chapter before ray's route comes out, good luck with it my comrades, i will be screaming endlessly the moment it comes out.


	11. so close to reaching that famous happy end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> parts of this chapter might not be a fun read for you if you have emetophobia so if that's an issue for you, please do let me know and i'll do what i can to make this a more comfortable read for you. also, this is long, so maybe don't start it at 3am? but you are the master of ur own fate, make ur own destiny.

Even with the windows rolled up tight, you can still feel the chill seep into the car.

It’s worse at your knuckles, skin stretched taut and thin with how tightly you’ve been gripping the steering wheel. It doesn't help that the air is on; the A/C system cuts down on the fog creeping up the windows, but you are left hunching in on yourself, shivering as you stare at the road.

But even the cold can’t convince you that you’re not caught up in some fever dream, because being here, being _out_ \-- none of this feels _real_. You still feel one step from getting caught, always thinking that even if there’s no one at _this_ corner, the next one you turn will put you right in the waiting arms of Mint Eye disciples. Like they _must_ have anticipated this, or -- have some way to track you down again, even when _he’s_ here with you and not there to do the tracking.

At this thought, you glance over at the seat beside you -- and frown. By all appearances, Saeran is still sleeping soundly, but he's begun to shiver. Is the air on too high for him? You can't switch it off just yet, so you reach over to tug his jacket up and over him, instead of letting it stay where it is, fallen so far past his shoulder. Hopefully that'll help.

Your lips pull up in a faint smile as you straighten. Only Saeran could maintain that dashing yet casual dishevelment even in sleep.

It feels like a miracle that he _is_ still sleeping. Each little bump you go over, every time the car jostles, your eyes go straight to him, worried that this will be the time, that he’ll suddenly jolt into consciousness and demand an explanation. But for now, at least, he sleeps -- though if the cold bothers him this much, that may not be true for long.

God, your head still aches. Fainter than before, but all this worrying isn’t helping. There’s so many unknown variables to this hasty plan -- when he’ll wake up, what he’ll think, all the many ways he could react when he learns what you’re trying to do, what he’ll think of being face-to-face with _Seven_ of all people, if you can get that far -- that even trying to account for them all makes the throbbing at your temples begin anew. Just… focus on driving; control what little you can right now. You’ll deal with the rest as it comes.

You haven't passed anyone in all the time you've been out here. Not surprising; the wee hours of the morning aren't exactly busy times for remote back roads.

You also haven't passed any _place_ , but while you know you saw a few buildings and rest stops on your way up to Mint Eye, there weren’t many. And… well, you were so focused on Saeran then that you can't say with certainty how long it will take to reach city limits. Anywhere from an hour to three hours sounds plausible, but you can’t be sure. The road is different in the dark, and there’s still hours until sunrise.

You have to bite back a groan when you slow the car to a stop upon reaching a crossroad, and you push down a spike of anxiety as you squint out the window at the choice before you. The way to the city is… left from here. You think.

_God_ , you wish your phone had some juice so you could check a map. You think you remember which way to go, but it’s hard to be certain, and when the stakes are this high, the possibility of choosing wrong weighs heavily on you.

You wrack your brain, contemplating just how accurate your memory is, but -- left. Left ought to get you there. And if it doesn't, you'll just turn around and come back. One step at a time, you remind yourself as you turn left and begin to drive down the road again.

You haven't made it much farther when you hear a soft noise at your side.

When you’re able to spare a glance towards him, you find Saeran curled up against the door, looking to still be asleep but shivering more noticeably now, and at the end of every few breaths is a faint, pained whimper. He must still be feeling the effects of the elixir.

There isn't much you can do for him now, though, besides trying to get somewhere safe as quickly as possible so he can recover in peace. So, you increase your speed and fix your eyes firmly on the road ahead.

...god, there are a lot of trees. This isn't exactly reassuring you that you made the right turn back at that fork. You may not have seen anything to clue you in that you're going the wrong way, but that doesn't mean this _isn't_ wrong; it would probably look like this even if you took the other path, and it's the unending _sameness_ that's getting to you. Something to break up the monotony of it all, take your mind off the journey ahead, would be a godsend.

And then, out of of the corner of your eye, you see Saeran begin to stir.

You stiffen, hands spasming on the wheel. You take it back. Monotony is _great!_ Please don't let him wake up.

He tosses and turns in his seat, first pressing closer to the door, then uncurling, pulling back from where he had been coiled up and straightening as he begins to stretch. He rubs at his eyes and your breath catches, wishing fervently that he's about to just fall back asleep, and when he droops again and turns his face to the window, you almost breathe a sigh of relief -- only to be met with a long groan, more shuffling, and then the sound of your name, croaked out tiredly.

_Shit_. You just _had_ to jinx it, didn’t you?

“...Saeran?” you call out his name tentatively, soft enough that you hope it won’t wake him if he’s just finding a more comfortable spot in his sleep.

“Mnnn.” He shifts again until he's leaning in your direction, though his head remains tipped back against the seat. His hair is sweat-slicked, sticking to his forehead. He looks wrecked, frankly, all bleary and shivering, unable to even keep his head aright.

“How are you feeling?” you ask him gently.

He looks in your direction, head falling heavily onto his shoulder. His movements still seem slow and sleepy, you note. Maybe you can coax him back asleep. “‘S… cold. ‘S _real_ cold.” Saeran makes eye contact with you the next time you glance away from the road. “...you’re warm,” he says, and then he slips out from the shoulder strap of his seatbelt and leans in until he’s resting his head against your arm. His skin is cool and clammy against yours, and he hums a note of contentment as he nuzzles against you.

You lift a hand briefly from the wheel, giving him a comforting pat before returning your focus to the road. He wraps his hands loosely around your arm, sighs in satisfaction, and then remains there.

Crisis… delayed?

He… is not going to be happy when he realizes what’s happening. You can't keep him in the dark forever, of course, but it would have been nice to have made some progress before he woke up -- made it to the apartment, contacted Seven, _something._ Now… well, that possibility is likely just a foolish hope. The realization makes your pulse spike with worry. Sooner or later, he’s going to find out what's happening, and it really looks like it'll be sooner.

You reach to smooth down his hair again.

One thing at a time. You can’t change how he’ll react, and you can’t keep him asleep forever. All you can do right now is drive, and soothe him as best you can to prolong his unaware state. This is already in motion. Now he’s here, and you’re here, and you don’t intend to go back. You just… have to roll with the punches now.

You’re shaken from your thoughts by the sight of something _other_ than homogenous trees approaching. The joy you feel when your headlights illuminate a speed limit sign set by a distinctively knotty old tree is immeasurable. You think you recognize this from your drive up to Mint Eye -- the sole landmark after a stretch of unremarkable greenery that went on for so long that, until you’d seen it, you'd worried that there wouldn't be anything distinctive enough to mark the right path back, if you ever got out. Seeing it now brings a relief similar to what you experienced then. You haven't gone astray, then. Though… you _do_ still have a ways ahead of you; this wasn’t exactly the first thing you saw after leaving city limits, after all, and there’s still _way_ more forest to deal with. After that, though, there’ll be some signs of life -- maybe you can use a phone in a gas station, call for help?

And then you snort and dismiss the thought. If you called the cops, you’d probably have to stick around to give directions -- and _explain_. Much as you’d like to see that place brought to justice as soon as possible, there’s a possibility that your tale would seem too implausible to act on, and you’re not wasting your head start and risking someone catching up to you. And with your phone dead, you don’t know the numbers of the RFA, so a payphone wouldn’t help you give them some forewarning, either. Still, even if you aren’t planning on stopping along the way, it’ll be nice to see signs that you’re nearing the city.

Saeran's shivering is getting worse. You can feel him shaking. The windows are finally defogged now, though, so you switch the A/C to low. Might take a while for the car to warm up more, but hopefully when it does, it’ll be easier for him to sleep.

“Still cold,” Saeran mumbles from the vicinity of your elbow. “...want another blanket.”

If only. “Sorry, Saeran, we’re fresh out.”

“Why?” The question is spoken blearily.

“Just… don't have any.” You almost ask if he's glad he brought his jacket like you asked him to, but if he's asking about blankets, he might be disoriented enough to think he's back in his room, or he's forgotten he ever left. Poor Saeran; he must be _exhausted._ If it means he's too tired to notice what's going on, it works in your benefit, but you can't help but feel bad anyway. “I’ll let you know when, ah… one becomes available.”

“ _Mnnn_.” The noise he makes is dissatisfied, but he leans forward again, placing more of his weight onto you.

After a little while, he mumbles something again.

“...what was that?”

He pulls back a little, though he remains in contact with you, tilting his head so his cheek is pressed against you rather than his forehead. “Th’ _savior._ ” And he cuts off there again.

“What about her?”

“Where is she? Why isn't she _here?”_ Ah. That's right. He'd said she came to him when he was feeling ill. You're not sure if he's realized where you are now, but he's definitely feeling her absence.

“She'll be here,” you assure him after a moment. “Shouldn't be long.” That should be a comforting thought for him, though you would not be similarly reassured if you thought the savior was on her way to see you.

“When?” he presses.

“Soon,” you say, and smooth down his hair before returning your hand to the wheel.

“And what are we… why…”

You wait, but he doesn't continue. Oh. That was a complete thought, huh? He really… does not seem to grasp what's going on right now. If he's this dazed, you should be able to appease him with simple answers until he tires himself out a little more and rests.

“Yyyyeah,” you say at last, unsure of what he was asking you and falling back on a noncommittal answer. “Just… gotta wait a while and the savior will be here to make you feel better.”

“ _When_?” he asks again, looking up at you with effort, wobbling slightly.

You laugh softly, spurred on by nerves. “Hey, I run on the savior's schedule, not the other way around. Soon, okay?” Just have to stall until he falls asleep and forgets about it. You comb your fingers through his hair, then shift more of your attention onto the road.

And then several things happen in rapid succession.

You pull back your hand to grip the wheel again; he reaches for you; his grip on your elbow tightens; and he _yanks_ with both hands, pulling one arm away from the wheel and sending the car lurching sharply to the side.

You yelp out the first syllable of his name and wrench your arm from his grasp, and for one terrifying moment, struggle to right yourself enough to actually get your foot on the brake. The trees bordering the road grow closer and closer, and you feel the car jolt as you go over the edge of the road, fumbling to feel out where the brake is when everything is going topsy-turvy before you can finally slam your foot down. The car shudders, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you brace for impact as it --

Stops.

It stopped?

Slowly, you crack open one eye, then the other. There's trees in front of you, alright, but _space_ , too; when you look behind you, you don't appear to be too far from the road. By some miracle, you _didn't_ careen straight towards the trees, as you'd feared, and instead stayed close enough to the road that you've just barely avoided disaster.

“...Saeran, what… the fuck,” you gasp out, voice shaking from your racing pulse. Slowly, you pry your fingers loose from their death grip on the wheel, though your foot remains firmly glued to the brake.

Was that -- a reaction to finally realizing where he is? But why would he do _that?_ “What the _fuck_ \-- oh, shit.” This last part comes once you've turned to look at Saeran, only to see him curled up and shaking heavily.

You reach for him, and he leans into your touch, but he draws in a sharp breath, then a series of little hiccuping gasps that catch in his throat, and then -- _convulses_.

You catch a glimpse of his eyes screwed up in pain before he doubles over, and as he trembles, the sound of retching reaches you.

You fumble with your seatbelt, then practically lunge across the seats to open his door. You have to strain to push it open enough, unable to stretch over him enough to reach quite as well as you'd like, and then you draw back.

“There -- if you need to--” you trip over your words, but thankfully, he seems to get the gist anyway, because he slumps over towards the open door, bracing a hand weakly against it as he leans out of the car.

You fist a hand in his jacket, afraid that he'll lean too far and tumble out, and wince as the retching increases, followed by the sound of wet splattering onto dirt and decaying leaves.

By the third heave, you start to wonder if he could possibly have anything left in his system besides elixir, because you can't imagine he has much left in him to regurgitate.

Finally, the retching stops, subsiding only to heavy panting, and you help pull him in, though he remains slumped over.

You rub little soothing circles on his back as he regains his breath, gasping in air.

So that… pulling the wheel, pulling you… doesn't _seem_ to be connected to any sort of outrage born of realization; given that he hasn't yet said anything, hasn't shown even the faintest flicker of anger, just _nausea_ , there might not have been a realization at all. Was that just -- wanting you to keep petting his hair, and he still has no goddamn idea what's going on?

You run your hands through your hair in agitated relief. You're not sure if that makes it any better; after all, if he wasn't _trying_ to cause harm and he only did this on accident…

Your fingers clench, nearly pulling out strands of your hair. Who knows what he might do if he was aware of what was happening and _truly_ upset.

“O...kay,” you murmur, giving his shoulder a few awkward pats. “You feeling any better now?”

He shoots you a pained look from half-lidded, tired eyes.

“...no?” you guess. “Not enough to, ah, not do that again?”

The look on his face is miserable, but this is replaced by a flicker of distress as his shoulders give a sudden shudder. That’s not a _good_ sign, but though you recognize this motion as a prelude to more vomiting, what can you do but wait it out?

Saeran leans out the door again, and you return to holding his jacket to steady him as he empties the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

You... _cannot_ drive to the apartment with him like this -- puking and so unaware that he's liable to do something dangerous. You'd thought that his disoriented state worked in your favor, but if he's of a mind to pull the steering wheel and nearly end you both without even pausing, you might not be able to make the trip without a repeat of this incident, and you're not sure your luck will hold up enough to save you a second time.

The sickness you can deal with -- you would _happily_ deal with him puking in the car the whole way up if it meant you could get to the safety of the apartment as quickly as possible. But the risk…

If something changed -- if you could make him less sick, make him comfortable enough to sleep, or at least, enough to not react out of misery-induced neediness, then most of the risk bleeds out of this scenario.

And… if you can't do that, then you wait for him to wake up more, realize what's happening around him so he doesn't react blindly like he did just moments ago? Though you _really_ doubt he'd just let you take him to the apartment if he knew that's where you're headed.

Still. One step at a time. Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll feel better after vomiting and fall back into peaceful sleep as you drive. If that doesn't happen, then… you know you passed a gas station on the way up, and if there's a convenience store attached, they might sell something for nausea. Carsickness, at least. No guarantee that'll work on elixir-sickness, but it's better than nothing.

When Saeran sits, you reach past him to close the door, then pat his shoulder again. “Hang in there a little longer, okay? I’m going to find something to help you.” He nods weakly, and you put the car in reverse. “...let me know if you need to do that again and we'll stop,” you add. You wait for him to nod again, and then you navigate back to the road and onward in the direction of the city.

It doesn't take long for the trees around you to begin to thin out, and you know that you will soon be seeing buildings. You should keep an eye out for that gas station. With any luck, you'll find it before he starts to come to any more than this.

...what _will_ you do if he wakes up and demands an explanation? What happens if you can’t persuade him to give you a chance, or if he remains too suspicious to even listen to you try to explain? You'll what -- dump him by the road and drive off? Drag him with you anyway, kicking and screaming?

Neither of these options are particularly desirable, but… you have to accept the possibility that he won’t go with you. And if that’s the case, there’s nothing you can do.

That thought… stings. It's not like you have some brilliant speech planned for him, so he may very well be unconvinced.

But now, you can see something rising from the darkness. Buildings up ahead.

“Where… are we?” Saeran asks weakly as the lights begin to come into view. Your heart stops. Alertness might be up on the menu after all. 

“...heading somewhere that should make you feel better.” With how often you've left Magenta for surveillance and... kidnapping attempts lately, he might believe you're currently out on another mission. Or maybe he doesn't even realize you're somewhere other than Mint Eye. You can only hope.

“Mmn.” You glance over at Saeran to see him leaning heavily against the door, limp. The gas station should be somewhere nearby, he just needs to hold on a little longer.

You slow as neon lights come into view on your left, then abruptly speed up and refocus on the road ahead of you once you see just what it's advertising. Yeah, nope, not doing that. A sketchy motel isn't going to have anything for his stomach, anyway.

As the lights fade behind you, Saeran speaks up from your side.

“...what was that?”

“Nnnnothing! Nothing. Nothing that can help in any way.” And thankfully, he does not pursue that line of questioning.

You notice as you pass the motel that on the other side of the street is a small gray building, no lights on, that looks like an office. But you need more than just a place for him to puke; you need him to _stop_ puking, so that isn't useful right now. You continue down the road.

The neon lights fade behind you, and when you can no longer see their pink glow, you redouble your efforts to make out some sign that you're nearing the gas station, or some other building that might provide help. It should be around here somewhere… the motel must have been the last place you passed before that stretch of trees, though you hadn't recognized what it was in the daytime, and you don't recall _too_ much of a gap between that and the buildings preceding it, so where…? Ah! There, up ahead on your right. And yep, there's a convenience store, too.

You pull up to one of the parking spaces and turn the car off.

“...still feeling pretty bad, right?” you ask, hand on your seatbelt, ready to unbuckle.

He gives you a flat, if tired, stare.

You hold up your hands, palms out. “Hey, just making sure.” You reach past him to open his door for him, and he relaxes a little at the rush of cool air. At least the cold is good for easing his nausea.

“Okay,” you say, “Saeran, you stay here --” As if he’s actually going to fight you on this; already, his breathing is growing shallow, and he looks like he's about to lean out the door again. “I’ll be right back with something to help.”

You've unbuckled your seatbelt and set your hand on the door handle when you realize that oh, right, you're going to have to pay for this somehow. So, you open the little coin drawer set below the radio and root around in it. To your relief, it only takes a moment to pull free a handful of slightly crumpled bills -- three 5000 notes, a 10000 note, and a handful of _very_ worn 1000s. Great. If they’ve got anything in there that could help, this should more than cover the cost. You fold the bills into your pocket, hop out of the car and walk briskly up the sidewalk.

A little bell rings when you push through the door, and again when it swings shut behind you. The cashier at the counter to your far right glances up from a magazine, nods slightly at you, then looks back down.

“Painkillers?” you ask, figuring they’d be lumped together in the same place and it’d take longer for him to think about an answer if you asked about medicine that helps with nausea.

“Past the dog food,” he tells you.

You nod in thanks and off you go, scanning the aisles as you pass them. Instant and canned meals, nope; rows and rows of rainbow gum, nope; not with chips and candies and other packaged sweets, either, although the cloying sweetness of one of those cinnamon rolls is tempting right now.

Pet food -- good, that means it’s coming up. And indeed, when you stop at the end of the next aisle, you are greeted with a vision of rows of travel-sized necessities, among which is a section of shelves with little packages. You hurry over to these, delighted to recognize individual packets of painkillers on the top shelf. If you just keep scanning the shelves, then… a _ha_.

You pause at a yellow and purple box. ‘ _Prevents nausea, dizziness, and vomiting_.’ Perfect. These ones are chewable tablets; would ones meant for swallowing be better? You don't have water for him to take it with, though you suppose you could just buy a bottle here. If he's nauseated enough, though, swallowing a tablet might be enough trigger his gag reflex and send it back up. On the other hand, if he doesn't like the taste of chewable tablets, that might have the same effect…

And as you glance out the window to the car, as if this will answer your question, you catch sight of Saeran wiping his mouth and leaning back in his seat, looking exhausted. Right, you'll stick with chewable. He needs whatever will help, fast. You rub at your temples as you pluck the box from the shelf and head towards the register.

If this helps him not be sick, you are _golden_. You can continue on your way, maybe speed a little to make the best time to the apartment, and everything will go great.

And… if it doesn't work, then… you wait until he feels better on his own so that he doesn't unwittingly crash the car? Where, then -- here? You slow your pace as you consider your options. You're not averse to waiting in the parking lot with him to see if the medicine will kick in and make a difference, but the cashier might notice that Saeran is puking on their property and be… well, none too pleased, you imagine. It's an option, though; you're pretty sure the cashier couldn't really do anything even if he wanted to, aside from voicing his displeasure and asking you to leave. But Saeran might start to become aware of his surroundings here. Not that _anywhere_ really captures the unique feel of Magenta, so he'd probably grow suspicious no matter where you went.

...though there was that motel. If you bring him to one of the rooms there, let him ride out this wave of illness in a place that bears a passing resemblance to _his_ room, maybe it'll help lull him to sleep, provide a sense of comfort.

Huh.

...wait, but cash you scrounged up from a coin drawer isn't going to pay for even an hour at one of those. You've begun to dismiss the idea when you reach the register and finally look up.

There's a charger with a car adaptor for sale behind the counter. How convenient.

You set the medicine on the counter, eyes locked on the charger. If the motel lets you pay with your phone, then you have an in, and… well, even if it doesn't, it would be nice to have a working cell phone.

“Will that be it?” asks the cashier.

And maybe you'll let fate decide this one. There’s no guarantee it's cheap enough to afford with your scrounged-up cash, and if you just flat-out don’t have enough to pay for it, that’ll decide whether the motel’s even up for consideration. So you point to the charger. “Sorry, that too.”

The cashier looks to where you're pointing, then pulls the box from the hanging rack. He rings you up, and you begin to unfurl and count the bills as you pull them from your pocket.

You… can pay for it. Just barely -- you're now left with ₩3000 and some change -- but it's yours now. You thank the cashier and pluck your spoils from the counter, heading back out the door. You have several possibilities in front of you. All you have to do now is… figure out which one’s right.

As soon as you slide into your seat and shut the door behind you, you set the charger and it's casing on the seat beside you and open the box of anti-nausea tablets. They come in foil-protected packets of eight. You tear off one of the squares and break the foil with your nails, then shake loose a pill and hand it to Saeran.

“Here,” you say. “Supposed to help with vomiting. Dizziness, too, if you're feeling that.”

Saeran eyes it for a moment before finally plucking it from your palm. It takes another moment for him to actually pop it into his mouth, but eventually he does and begins to chew, though he grimaces at the taste. ‘Orange-flavored’ is apparently a bald-faced lie.

And then he gags. Oh, no.

“Please tell me the medicine I got you isn’t gonna make you--” But your plea goes unheard.

You rake your hand through your hair as the taste sends him pitching forward, coughing shallowly into his hands as he presses them to his mouth. At least he’s only _nearly_ barfing this time.

...nope, spoke too soon; moments after you think that, he is leaning out the door again. Aaand there go all the bits of the medicine. Hey, if he didn't swallow any of it, he _could_ try taking another one. ...later. When he’s not actively vomiting.

You rub his back as he finishes emptying his stomach once more, and when you help pull him back in, you don’t protest when he immediately leans against you, though you _do_ reach under your seat for your phone with your other hand.

Whatever you end up doing, raising your phone from the dead seems like a pretty good idea. You balance it on your thigh as you set to work extricating the charger from its packaging.

The protective layers are pretty weak, thankfully. You tear through some cardboard, pull away a flimsy plastic covering, and then fumble to jam it into a working port in the partial darkness of the car and plug your phone into it. After a moment, it flickers to life, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Once it's finished booting up, you switch it to airplane mode and turn the screen off again. Does it charge faster if you drive around? Or no, that just helps the car battery from draining. Should be fine even if you just stay here for a while.

So you set your phone in the space between the seats and ask, “...d’you wanna try that again?” And then you shake your head and add, softer, “I'm not gonna make you do anything, but you seem… pretty miserable right now, and these are supposed to help. If the one you tried was what made you puke, then that’s obviously no good, but if you were going to throw up anyway, then maybe… trying again might help. But… well, like I said, it’s not up to me.”

“...yeah,” he says at last. “Gimme another.”

So you do.

This time, though his face twists in a grimace, he manages to swallow it, albeit with some obvious effort. “Gross,” he says.

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I bet it is. Should work soon, though.”

“Mmn.” He buries his face in your shoulder.

“Hey, at least you're not immediately puking it back up.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice muffled. You begin to stroke his hair and feel him relax against you, though shivers still wrack his body. “For now.”

“Oh, don't be such a downer,” you chide gently, dragging your nails lightly over his scalp so that he nuzzles closer to you with a pleased sigh. “It'll work.” You hold him like this until his breathing evens out, but… he doesn't seem like he's going to fall asleep, even if he _is_ a little more drowsy than he was when he was leaning out of the car. Damn.

Still, drowsiness is good. Less alertness in general is good. Means less _protesting_ \-- though, of course, he whines when you ease away from him and close his door. You don't even bother with the fight that would ensue if you tried to make him pull away from you entirely, even just for the brief moment you'd fix the shoulder strap around him, so instead, you just make sure his lap belt is firmly in place and turn on the car.

He's not vomiting, though he doesn't yet seem _well_. Given the circumstances, though, you've got to try to continue on. So, you pull out of the parking lot and turn onto the road in the direction of the city.

The lights from the gas station haven't even faded behind you when he speaks up.

“What now?” It's spoken with such an enveloping aura of exhaustion that it barely even sounds like a question.

“...well, you're not better yet, are you?” you keep your voice light and your eyes fixed on the road. “We should fix that. Medicine will help. I intend to help further.”

“...how?” His pause gives _you_ pause. You repeat the {word/question} in your mind, scanning it for any signs of exasperation. He just seems… tired, though, to your relief.

“That depends. What’s ailing you most now? Besides the burning desire to empty out your stomach.”

“Cold,” he says. From that persistent tremble, you don’t doubt it.

“That’s what’s next, then: fixing that. Hold tight for just a little longer and we’ll have you warmed up in a jiffy.”

He presses closer to you, but seems to accept your words. Good.

So far, there's just trees and road ahead as far as you can see. While that means there’s less to catch Saeran’s eye and arouse his suspicions, you do sort of wish you could see more signs of the city -- particularly because you can’t quite recall if, on the way up to Magenta, you passed anything prior to the gas station that’d be close enough to see from the road at night, and if you _did_ but haven’t yet passed it, that means there’s still a ways left to go. But you’ve barely left the gas station behind; it’s too early for these worries.

“Hey…” Saeran’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“Mmh?”

“ _Hey_ …” He reaches up a hand and your whole body goes stiff as his fingers wrap around your forearm.

Your stomach lurches at the spike of fear this motion brings, intensified by déjà vu rather than dulled by it, and you react instinctively, loosening your grip on the wheel with that hand so that he can't do it for you when you don't expect it, making the car wobble as you compensate with your other hand.

He pulls your now-limp arm towards him, snuggling against it. You slow the car and pull off to the side of the road and it feels rash and yet necessary all at once, given how tight his grip is on you. Feels like you’ve narrowly avoided another crash.

Which is a bad sign. The vomiting may be quelled, but the impulsiveness apparently isn’t.

For a moment, you just stare straight ahead, thinking. “...I'm betting you're still cold, huh?” you ask after a long moment.

“Mm _hmm_.” He nods as he responds, and you can feel his frown, petulant and miserable, against you.

“...okay,” you say. That’s it then. You’ve got to switch tactics. Maybe, _maybe_ the third time’s the charm, but you really fucking doubt it right now. So you’ll… try the motel. Maybe he can rest. Sleep a little. And, ideally, wake up feeling refreshed but still tired and slow so you can just usher him to the car and keep driving without him pulling the wheel or asking probing questions. The motel might not even allow you to pay with your phone, but it’s worth a shot, and if it really doesn’t work, you’ll… wait out the worst of it in a parking lot, or by the side of the road. Whatever keeps you both alive and _not_ dealing with the possibility of a crashed car.

“How about we fix that?” you say. You _do_ know where a convenient source of blankets is.

He nuzzles against your arm, and you take that as a ‘yes.’

And so you head back the way you came. Back, past the gas station, towards the motel whose lights you anticipate far earlier than they actually become visible.

He does not protest as you drive, nor does he pull at you any more than he already is -- though you let him keep holding your arm right up until the moment you switch on your blinker and turn into the dark and empty parking lot of the office building across the street from the motel, needing two hands for the sake of precision.

You park the car and then… just watch him, hoping that something in his bearing will convey to you whether you're making the best choice you can in an unfortunate situation or whether you're making a huge mistake.

All he does is blink sleepily up at you after a minute of silence.

Well… if he's still this tired, it'll probably be fine. Let him sleep off the worst of it in there -- or out here, if you can't get a room -- and then keep driving to the apartment when he's a bit more… docile. And then you snort and rethink that as you brush your fingers comfortingly through his hair and he closes his eyes and nearly purrs in happiness. Docile, you have. It's the restlessness, the impulsiveness that's worrying. If he gets some sleep… maybe that'll dull it.

But before you drag him in there, you should probably make sure the motel doesn’t require having a physical card to pay, to avoid waking him up more for nothing.

You reach for your phone and switch it off airplane mode. 27% charge. Great. If it's cooperative, you have some time before it dies. With your luck, though… well, you'd better use it sparingly until you can get to the charger again.

“Okay,” you say softly, placing a hand gently on his back. He cracks open a tired eye to look at you. “Hang in there a little longer. It'll be easier to bear soon. I'll just be a minute.”

He whines in disappointment, but nods and settles back in his seat. You flash him a grateful smile, then unplug your phone, turn off the engine, slip the keys in your pocket, and step out of the car.

You walk briskly to the side of the road, check in both directions, and hurry across to the motel.

This time, there is no bell to herald your arrival. The room you step into is devoid of people, actually -- an empty lobby. There's kiosks set into the walls with inviting-looking welcome screens, so you cross the room over to these.

The one you approach displays a list of available rooms once you tap the screen, so you scroll through them, looking at the images of the interiors that come up. Looks like there's a fair number still available, all at decent prices, though they start to increase in price the farther you go. Is that… a hospital-themed room?

You shake your head and go back to the earlier rooms. Most of these are pretty much identical, so you scroll back until you manage to pinpoint a few with closed bathrooms -- not a feature all of the rooms possess, which, while perhaps a plus to some who come seeking rooms here, only fills you with thoughts of having to piss with no privacy; not the sort of comfort you’re hoping to give him. There’s nothing suitable available on the first floor, but there _is_ one on the second floor -- #212. It might only mean a difference of a few seconds in the elevator, but with his queasy stomach the quicker it is to get to, the better.

It’s available to rent both for the full night and for shorter durations. An hour is cutting it too close, and there are two- and three-hour options, but… well, the full night barely costs any more, and while the idea of spending even a few hours here, waiting, makes you nervous, it’s better to be safe than sorry. If he falls asleep at last, only to have to move to another room because the time’s run out in this one, it’ll interrupt that tranquility you’re hoping the room will impart. So, you select this option for the room and cross your fingers as you hit the prompt to progress to the payment screen.

You breathe a sigh of relief when it loads and you see that the system _is_ set up to allow payments without a physical credit card present -- you’ll be able to use your phone for this after all. You pull up the necessary info and type it into the console. Another weight lifts off your shoulders as it finishes loading and indicates a successful payment as the kiosk whirrs and then dispenses a key with the tag #212.

Your bank account hasn’t been frozen in your absence. Awesome. Now you just have to get Saeran up to the room.

You hold the key firmly in your hand as you head out the door and make your way across the street and into the office’s the dark parking lot, heading for Saeran’s side of the car. You knock once on the window to alert him to your presence, then open the door, resting a hand on the roof as you lean in. “Ready to go?” You offer him a hand. “C’mon. Warmth ahead. Blankets at last.” Tired as he may be, there’s no way you’re going to park the car in front of something so visible as the motel and get caught because of that, so you’ll just have to support him during the short walk.

He blinks blearily at you, then accepts the offered help and allows you to pull him up and out of the car. After he's standing, you reach in to grab the box of nausea medicine, close the door and lock the car, and slide an arm around his waist. He does the same to you, though he of course nestles into your side as he does.

He's mostly steady on his feet, thankfully, though he does wobble a little as you guide him. Definitely slow. Still, you make it to the doors of the motel without incident. He winces as you step inside together, turning his face so that he's burying it in your shoulder. Doesn't like the lights, you suppose.

You make your way to the elevator, press the call button, and sigh in relief as the doors slide open immediately. Convenient, for once. And you're only going up a floor, so the journey is short; less than a minute after you press the button for the second floor, the doors slide open again.

The hallway is somewhat narrow, but not so much that you can't navigate it side-by-side; just means it's a bit of a tight squeeze. #212… if this side is evens, and _this_ side is odds, then it should be… ah, right there. You unlock the door, flick on the lights, and let the door swing shut behind you.

You’d seen it on the screen but you're still pleased to see that it's fairly nice-looking in person. Nothing special, but… nice. You help Saeran to the edge of the neatly-made bed and ease him down onto it.

“Think you're going to throw up again any time soon?” you ask as he pulls the blankets up over himself.

He gives a listless shrug, curling up beneath the blankets. “Not now. Later, maybe. Still don’t feel _great_.”

“Mmm. Right. Gotta be prepared for the possibility.” There’s probably a little trash can in the bathroom. If you bring it out, he won't have to run in there to puke. “We can deal with that, though. One sec.”

You make your way to the bathroom and push open the door. It doesn't take much searching to find it, between the sink and the toilet. That should help. You grab it, then... hesitate.

You glance back at the bed, and after confirming that he's not currently looking at you, you pull your phone from your pocket. You don’t have much charge, so you’ll have to be quick, but this is as good a time as any to make sure you’re really on the right track to the apartment, and to get an estimate for how long it’ll take to get there. You _almost_ pull up the messenger app to get the address, but -- well, even assuming you still have access to it, if anyone in the RFA sees you come online, that might cause… problems.

The apartment was the last place you went before… all of this. Him. Your eyes stray momentarily to the doorway, looking at the lump Saeran makes under the blankets. Since you used the map to get to the apartment on that fateful day, it should remember the address. You navigate to it and a _ha_ , there it is. Okay, looks like it's about… an hour to the apartment. That's longer than you'd like, but much, much better than you’d feared.

A cough comes from the other room, then another. It doesn’t _sound_ like precursor to vomiting -- but then he groans your name, and you set your phone hastily beside the sink so you can grab the trash can and hurry to his side. Once there, you drop the trash can onto the floor and sink onto the bed beside him.

“Saeran?” you question.

You place a hand on his forehead, pushing back sweaty hair as you do. He's not exactly burning up, but he's definitely warm.

“Geez,” you murmur, “you're having a rough night, huh?

He groans in response, but lifts a hand to cover yours. As his thumb brushes over your fingers, clammy palm pressed to the back of your hand, he cracks open an eye.

Your breath catches at the weary pain you see there, and you bring up your other hand to cup his face.

“...I'm sorry.” There's no doubt this is your fault.

“S’okay,” he says, and yawns. “Not as cold now.” And then he turns those sad puppy eyes on you. “...still a little cold. And achey.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, guilt subsiding as you bite back a smile at the way he’s clearly milking the situation for sympathy. “How can I help?”

He covers your other hand with his. “Stay with me.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I think I can do that. Lemme turn off the lights so you can sleep.” But when you move to stand, he reaches for you, just barely managing to catch your hand as you pull away. “...what?”

He makes a displeased noise.

“You… don't want me to go? It's just ten steps away.”

He whines louder.

“I'll be right back! And wouldn't it be nice to turn the lights off, not have to strain your eyes?”

After a long moment, he lets go. “...fine.”

It's hard not to laugh at how sulky he sounds. You step away, and as promised, it only takes a moment to walk back to the door and flick off the lights.

“Now come back,” he calls from the bed.

“I will!” You _do_ laugh now. “I'm coming, I’ve just got to… navigate in the dark.”

You take slow, careful steps until you reach the foot of the bed, then feel your way up the edge -- until you brush Saeran’s side and then he reaches for you, tugging you onto the bed. He doesn't seem to care that you land halfway on top of him, just wraps his arms around you and rolls so that you're laying side-by-side, pressed into each other.

He hums a contented note as he pulls you close to him, then reaches to pull the blanket over you.

“...Did you push the blankets off you in anticipation of me laying down next to you?”

“Mmm.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Want you to be warm too.”

“Aww, how swe-- _eet!_ ” The word is cut off in a yelp as Saeran abruptly grazes his teeth over your neck then places a kiss there.

“Saeran!”

He chuckles, and you groan at his amusement, wiggling in his arms and pushing at his chest in a way that is less of an attempt at escape than a show of exasperation.

He murmurs your name in response, breath ghosting over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and you can feel him smile against you. He places another kiss to your collarbone, then nestles into you, tightening his arms so you're as close as can be.

“Stay.” It brooks no room for argument. You still have to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“I said I would,” you remind him. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

He makes a soft, pleased sound, but otherwise doesn't respond.

He definitely seems more comfortable like this, all wrapped up in you. If you wanted him to sleep soundly, this seems like the way to do it. And _is_ rather cozy in his arms. There's no harm in staying here, you decide. Much better than just sitting and watching him sleep for an hour or two. You'll just wait until it seems like he's slept enough, then wake him gently and lead him to the car and let him continue his nap.

You trace idle circles and spirals onto his back and he nuzzles happily into you. Yes, everything will be fine, you decide, and close your eyes for a moment to bask in his warmth.

\-- and the next thing you know, you are cold and alone. The blanket is askew, tossed halfway off you, and you shiver against the cool air.

You sit in a panic, throwing your arms out to feel around you, patting at the sheets, but no matter where you look, your search turns up empty -- no Saeran anywhere.

You swing your legs onto the ground and stand with a sense of urgency that makes you stumble, and it’s only when you turn to try to scan the room in the almost perfect darkness do you realize why it’s not fully dark -- the bathroom door is shut, and there is a glowing strip of light visible beneath it.

You sag down onto the edge of the bed, heavy with the weight of your relief, and rub blearily at your eyes.

He’s still here. And -- another look around the room shows that there’s no light peeking from between the curtains, so while you must have dozed off, it couldn’t have been for _too_ long; it is not yet dawn. Good. You still have time.

You… don’t hear anything from the bathroom, though. He’s _got_ to be in there, but… still, your worries bid you to stand once more and pad over to the door, hesitantly pressing your ear against the wood. After a moment, you can hear faint shuffling from within, and you breathe a sigh of relief.  

You draw back and knock on the door. “Saeran?” you call. “Everything alright in there? You’re not feeling sick again, are you?”

The shuffling stops.

“...Saera--?”

“You…” the word sends a chill down your spine and your mouth goes dry, unprepared for the malice you hear. “You _lied_.” Somehow, there is more venom in that statement than you could have ever imagined.

Your hand, still held up in the air, ready to knock again, spasms as his words hit you like a bucket of ice. _You lied, you lied, you lied_.

He's so -- certain, so _angry_. He's clearly cognizant enough to recognize you are beyond Mint Eye, and cognizant enough to know what that means.

“Saeran, I -- I don’t --”

“Don't!” he snarls. “You -- took us away from Magenta, you brought us -- here.   _Why?_ ”

You hold up a hand placatingly, though of course he cannot see you, resting your fingertips on the door. “Saeran, it’s not -- i-it isn't as bad as it seems,  there's no need to --”

“ _Tell me_ ,” he hisses, insistent.

“I…” Your mind races, desperately trying to think of some excuse he’ll believe. “I _did_ say I wanted to get some air. It might not be the walk you were imagining, but… having a clear head  makes me more useful to paradise, doesn't it?” Right, and then there’s the logistics of being out here. “A-and we couldn't be out here without anyone knowing, could we? We just… stopped to rest to make you feel better, and soon we’ll--”

“Be on our way to the apartment?” he interrupts. He spits out the words with a dose of feigned enthusiasm. “Farther and farther from paradise, long past the point of reason for a _trip for some air?_ ”

He sounds so certain, how does he --

Oh, goddamn it. God _damn_ it. You left your fucking phone on the bathroom counter. With the map on full display, just past your lockscreen, which he would _of course_ either already know or be able to bypass.

“I wasn't…” you begin weakly.

“ _Don't!_ ” he shrieks, as he slams his fist into the door, making you jolt back, “try to lie to me more!”

“I'm not -- I wasn't trying to -- I had a good reason!” you plead. It’s a weak excuse, but your ability to reason out a better one doesn't seem to be present right now, drowned out by mounting panic.

“A good--” He sounds as if he's choking on the word, and then he redoubles his efforts, bile coating his words. “What _possible_ reason could you have to betray Mint Eye, to betray the savior, to betray _me_ \--”

“It's _for_ you!” You cry, “I wasn't given a choice in any of this, but now, for the _first_ time since I met you, I’m actually in control of something, and so I'm choosing to do this, not to betray you, but _for you!_ ”

“How could you--” He is nearly stuttering in his disbelief.

“--and I know I shouldn't have lied to you but I -- I -- couldn't make you listen to me, couldn't make you see as long as you were in there because they--

“--ever _possibly_ think taking me from _the one place I can be safe_ would be--”

“--wouldn't ever want you to question them and--”

“--anything but a betrayal, how could this be _for me_?”

You stop short as you finally register his words, a startled laugh bubbling up from your throat. _Safe._ “You -- you can't even see it.” It comes out as a murmur, almost disbelieving of his devotion, even now, a sense of horrified awe washing over you at just how deep they've rooted themselves in him. But of course they have, of _course_. Why would he see it any better now than he did before?

“Can't see _what_ ,” he spits out.

Your hands clench into fists as the answer to his question bursts forth. “See the damage they do, how much they've -- wormed their way into your head to twist things so far that you see them as _safe!_ They're not safe, they're not anywhere _close_ to it, and the only way to be safe when they're in the picture is to _leave!_ ”

“ _You--!”_ And then you hear him draw in a shaky breath from the other side of the door. “Magenta... is where I belong. It's the _only_ place I belong,” he says, voice low and eerily calm.

“ _Why?_ ” His words are unfathomable to you. The _only_ place he belongs? “You’re so sure of that?

“Of course!” he snaps. “I can't _go_ somewhere else, it's not -- it isn't possible, not with--” A ragged breath. “--how I am.” A measure of calmness returns to his voice. “And yet the savior found me when I was cast aside by everyone and gave me love and purpose.”

“What _purpose?_ ” you cry. “Kidnapping charity organizations? Spying on people going about their day? Drugging people up to their gills so they comply?”

You can hear the shuffling start up again. It sounds like he's pacing in agitation.

After a moment, he speaks again. “Because of her, I can bring more lost souls to the peace they've longed for but always lacked, help those no one else would, _save_ those as lost as I was! The savior brought me here to _help_ and I won't turn my back on that, I won't betray her, I _won't!_ ”

“She brought you to Mint Eye to _use_ you,” you cry, and he slams his fist against the door again.

“She _didn't!_ ” he shrieks. “She saved me from a shithole that would've gladly chewed me up and spit me out! The savior is the _only_ person who ever accepted me, the only one I can trust not to betray me like everyone else! No one had _ever_ wanted me before her, and there is no one I can rely on but her and…!” He chokes on his words. “You, you were supposed to…!”

Your breath catches. There is a moment of silence. You're not sure if you can actually hear his faint but labored breathing or if you just imagine it, much the same way that you imagine how he must look right now, fingers twisted in his hair in agitation, eyes wide and wounded, a frown cutting deep lines into his face.

Finally, he asks, “did you… intend to leave for good?”

You hesitate. “...yes,” you admit.

There is a soft noise of pain from the other side of the door. “But you -- did the work, you were by my side each step of the way, you helped paved the way to bring the RFA into paradise. And you're ready to throw that all away ?” He falters. “How long did you intend this? How long did you lie to me? Or was it from the beginning?” His voice is harsh, but the next words he speak sound lost. “Weren't you _happy_ there…?”

“I…” You tangle your fingers in your hair and tug until it hurts, trying to find some grounding influence in the sting. “Look, I don't give a damn about paradise, okay? I don’t and I never did. I only did what I thought I had to do to avoid something awful happening. Jesus, I don't even know what _salvation_ is meant to entail, but nothing could be worth what it takes to get someone there! But I _do_ give a damn about _you_.”

His laugh is bitter. “Really.”

“Saeran…”

“No, go on. Tell me more about how you -- pretended to understand me while plotting against Mint Eye and now you want me to ignore the fact that you _lied_ to me and expect me to believe a single word out of your mouth.”

“I didn't have much of a choice, did I?” you snap. But it's -- misplaced anger. His words send a pang of guilt through you, and though you know you're in the right, you still ache keenly for the pain you are causing him now, the sense of betrayal he must be feeling.

“I know you have no reason to trust me now,” you say softly, “but I never wanted to hurt you.” You want to reach out for him, seek out that comfort he so readily gave you only hours ago, maybe impart some sense of sincerity through your touch. Instead, you curl inward, placing your palms on your knees.

You wait for him to speak -- and wait, and wait. Faintly, you hear the creak of the door as he leans his weight against it. After another moment, you slowly sink into a sitting position, leaning against the door just as he is.

What are you even trying to accomplish here now? Getting him to believe you over the things he’s been told for god-knows-how-long -- months, at least, maybe even years -- by that cult, dispelling all those lies, all that indoctrination? Save him through the power of love?

You can’t… _make him_ believe you, not by force of will alone. It’s not -- _strictly_ necessary to getting somewhere safe, or to bringing down Mint Eye, and… well. It _will_ be brought down, one way or another, with or without him. Even if he won't go with you, you won't be abandoning him to their clutches forever.

You’re out of paradise. You have a fair shot at making it to the RFA even if things go pear-shaped -- he’d never be able to get somewhere with the equipment necessary to track you before you reached the apartment, even if the absolute worst happened and you had to trek through the woods to get there without the car. Not your ideal day, but feasible. Might be able to call a cab with the last of your phone’s charge. If you ever get it back from the bathroom, that is.

…if he doesn't go with you, he may never speak to you again. Likely won't, in fact. If you can't reconcile now, then that… may just be the end of it.

You stifle a groan and let your head fall back against the door. Why can't escaping a cult ever be _easy?_

...a few minutes then, maybe. A few minutes and then you'll… accept his loss and continue your escape, even if the thought of it makes your stomach turn unpleasantly.

And, at last, he speaks.

“Why?” he murmurs. “Why, why, _why_ would you do this, why would you take me--?” There is anguish in his voice, now, along with the anger. “If you hated it so much, why didn't you just leave…?”

“Kind of in the middle of that, here,” you respond with a bitter laugh.

“But with me? _Why_ with me?”

“Because I don't _want_ to leave you. I had to go back for you, you know. Couldn't take those final steps knowing I was leaving you behind me, and I just… couldn't bear to be without you.”

“ _Why?_ ” There is something in his voice that sounds as if he is searching for something in particular from you.

“Because I--” your breath catches, and your hands clench. “Because I care about you. Somehow. Despite… everything. I want you to have the chance to be as safe and happy as you could be and you just don't have that chance there. I can't claim to know… what you've been through, what your life was like before Magenta, but even if it's better there somehow, that doesn't make it _good_.” You close your eyes. “For anyone, but least of all you.”

And how do you explain? How do you convey the sense of unceasing, overwhelming loneliness you've felt from him? “I noticed things, in Mint Eye,” you say. “Things that made me start wondering what life was like for you before -- _me_ , before I came there. What were you like? No one to hold on your lap and feel up, obviously, but did you ever even talk to anyone?” Sometimes you think _you_ know the disciples better than him, with how rarely he acknowledges their existence.

“Did you have… anything else to do besides your constant, diligent work? Because as far as I can tell, it's just me that you connect to, me and the savior and fuck all. Were you _alone_ all that time _?_ Were you ever _happy?_ You were always working to further the cause, even when it meant dealing with -- watching people who caused you so much heartache? I don't know what kind of betrayal you went through, but I know it must have been bad to cause that kind of hurt. And when I think about it, I -- I --”

You struggle with the words. “When I think about leaving you in a place that would let you stay like that, I can't bear it. You deserve so much more than that.” You hesitate.  “...I… can't say I’m sure that I brought you happiness, either, but I was damn sure that I'd find a way to make you happy now.” Bitter tears prick at your eyes as you laugh softly.

And… you suppose you've said your piece. It’s out of your hands now. You might as well resign yourself to leaving without him.

You bury your face in your hands and try to fight back the wave of pain that this decision brings, then start to stand.

And there is the quiet click of a lock.

You freeze, halfway standing. Nothing happens for a moment, and then another moment, and then… the doorknob turns and, with a creak, the bathroom door opens.

Saeran stares down at you, expression unreadable, and continues to meet your eyes as you slowly stand.

A moment later, there are hands cupping your jaw, keeping you still. His gaze stays intense, focused on you.

“...tell me again,” he says softly. “What you were hoping to accomplish tonight.”

You wince. “Get us somewhere safe,” you whisper.

He stares into your eyes, examining you, searching for something. It's hard not to flinch back at the scrutiny, though you meet his gaze as steadily as you can, hoping that he will be satisfied by whatever he sees. Your pulse races as you try desperately to decipher his thoughts in return but his expression is blank, devoid of his previous anger and rage. Try as you might, you cannot read him. You begin to shrink away from his scrutinizing gaze.

And then he nods. “Okay.”

Your heart leaps. “...okay?”

He nods again and the barest flicker of a smile tugs up the corners of his mouth lips as he leans in until he's resting his forehead against yours.

“I--” You draw in a shaky breath. “I’m thrilled, but -- okay? _Really_ okay?” You may be tempting fate, tempting a reversal of his acceptance, but… it's hard to wrap your head around it. Something about this doesn't seem right, it's… too easy.

“Well,” he says, “you could have gone about this better…” You laugh softly even as his words make you wince. “...but yes. I see now why you've done this.”

Tears spring to your eyes as his words wash over you, and you place your hands over his, overwhelmed but thankful.

He lets a hand fall from your face to rest at your hip and pushes gently, urging you backwards. You follow his lead until you bump into the edge of the bed, and then you sit. He follows, sitting so close to you that you're flush against his side, and he holds your hands in his.

After a moment, he speaks again. “Why didn't you tell me this earlier? If you worried so much...”

“Would you have listened?”

“To you telling me you care about me? Always. Might’ve been easier to talk about this if you hadn't waited,” he suggests, a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

A nervous giggle spills from your lips, driven by a mix of relief and confusion too strong to keep bottled up. This feels like a dream.

But… as much as you'd like it to be true… that's it? That’s all it took? Just… some long-thought words and he understands and he's ready to leave Mint Eye behind?

You open your eyes, trying to think up the words to voice your concern, to make you understand, but…

Though he looks content, there is a furrow to his brow, a faint but constant wince marring his expression.

“Saeran? Is something wrong?”

He shakes his head, though this deepens the furrow. “Headache. It’s… fine, I can manage, I've managed before.”

“Lingering effect of the elixir?”

“Mmh. Yeah. Not unexpected.” He gives a wan smile. “Not _wanted_ , but not unexpected.”

You wince in sympathy. “That just kicked in?”

“No, but…” he inclines his head. “Wasn't really my biggest concern a few minutes ago.”

“And... the nausea pills said they could help with dizziness, with nothing about headaches anywhere. That'd just be too easy, wouldn't it?” you lament. A thought occurs to you. “Oh… though, I bet we could just go back to the convenience store and get painkillers to take care of it, or… make it not as bad, depending on the intensity.”

The more you think about it, the more you grow keen on the idea. “Yeah, we can stop there and then just continue on, fixing your headache as we get back on the road.”

But when you look to Saeran, he is frowning. “We really don’t have to do that,” he says.

“Hey, you think I'm gonna give a big speech about wanting you to be safe and happy and then just shrug off you hurting?” You stand so you can dig around in your pockets for your keys. “The gas station is just up the road, we can get there in five minutes, ten minutes tops.” You pull the keys free at last and swing them around a finger. “Well? C’mon, let’s go.”

He remains still. A sense of dread rises within you, though you try to push it back down.

“...don't wanna get up now. I’d rather just wait until it stops hurting.”

“It's that bad? In that case, I _definitely_ can’t ignore it.” You smile with a mirth you don't quite feel.

“Not ignore,” he says, meeting your eyes head on. “Just give time to get better.”

You hesitate.

“Wasn't that what we were here for?” he asks. “To make me feel better? I remember you said that. Or…” And a smirk crosses his face. “Did you take us here for some _other_ reason?” As you stare at him, dumbfounded, he says, “I saw the name of this place on the map. Interesting pick.”

“Noooooo,” you groan, “that's not fair, I did it so you wouldn't crash the car.”

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

“What, you don't remember that?” you ask. “I'm not sure how much you noticed; you _did_ sort of segue into barfing immediately after. But… I, uh, don't think you'll be doing _that_ again now, so… this is the sort of better I meant. There’s no reason why we have to stay here any longer. Unless you think the car ride would make it worse…?”

“Wouldn't make it _better_.”

“Unless you got painkillers,” you interject, but he continues.

“And it's safe enough here that we can stay for a while.”

You're inclined to disagree, though you suppose he _would_ know better than you how capable Mint Eye is of tracking you down without him there.

“I'm… nervous about staying,” you admit. “If you say staying won't hurt us, I trust you, but that doesn't mean I won’t worry. And I really do think that painkillers will help with your headache. Even if you say you’re fine, I don’t like seeing you in pain,” you add.

He nods, and there is a moment of contemplative silence. “Both, then,” he says at last. “You get painkillers and come back. I'll stay here, and then we wait for the headache to fade.”

“And then we'll… leave... together…?” you speak this last part hesitantly, still in disbelief of how well everything has gone.

“Yeah. Together,” he says.

His words elicit such a swell of relief that you nearly sway on your feet. He's -- okay with this. He's willing to leave with you.

A laugh spills from your lips and you take a half-step closer to the bed so you can cup his face and press an impulsive, ecstatic kiss to his lips -- and then another, and another, too overjoyed to slow down.

Saeran seems surprised for only a half-second, and then he tangles his fingers in your hair and accepts your kisses with enthusiasm and a smile. He nuzzles against you when you finally pull back a bit, and seeing such a content look in his eyes makes warmth blossom in your chest.

“I--” There are words that lie at the tip of your tongue, threatening to spill out in this rush of affection, dangerous words for this situation, far stronger than _caring_. “...I'll be back soon,” you say again, an earnest promise. “And everything will be -- better.”

You are reluctant to step back entirely, but you know you must. Can't really help his headache when you just stay here, caught in his embrace. “It won’t take long but for some reason, I don’t want to leave,” you murmur, and he grins at this confession.

“Okay,” you say, and finally straighten. “I don't know how long we slept, but I should make sure I can pay if we need more time on the room, so…” You step into the bathroom and grab your phone, then return. “Right. I've got the key to the room, but just in case, maybe listen for desperate knocking? It's been, ah, that kind of night.”

He chuckles and lays back against the bed, and as he settles in, you walk to the door. You give him one last look as you open the door -- and pause.  

There's something indulgent about his smile that gives you pause, as if he's being permissive of your childish attitude or he's… anticipating something. But you shake your head, willing the thought away. Only hours ago, he was so taken in by your kisses that he failed to notice being steadily drugged, so maybe he's just dreamy after getting more kisses.

You smile back at him, though the expression may come off a bit more nervous than you'd intended, and then you're off. Once off the elevator, you make a brief stop at one of the kiosks, but the room isn't marked as up for rent currently, so you must still have time.

So out the doors, and back across the street you go.

You root around in your pockets as you get closer to the car. You had, what, a little more than ₩3000? That should do it, even if it only gets you a two-pack. Still, you check the coin drawer just in case, and actually manage to find a worn 1000 note wedged into the back of the drawer, half-fallen out. Nice. No guarantee you'll need it, but it's reassuring. If you come back empty-handed, that won't be any help to him.

You return the money to your pocket, start the car, and pull out of the lot.

It's hard to stop the slew of thoughts that creep in as you drive. At least you're not panicking like you were before.

Still, you can't help wondering -- is he really so fine with leaving Mint Eye? Does he assume you’re going to abandon your plan to go to the apartment to enlist Seven’s help? Does he think that you'll find some other ‘safe place’ to hide out with him? If you _do_ keep driving to the apartment -- and you will, you _must_ ; the RFA seems like it'll provide the quickest way to bring down Mint Eye, and time is of the essence here to avoid anyone else getting hurt -- will he freak out when he realizes how close Seven will be to him? Could you dare to hope that he’d accept going to them if you… leave after getting a promise that they’ll help you? If you minimized the time spent around Seven?

And on that note, what the hell was his life like before Mint Eye, and how were Seven and V involved? What kind of betrayal happened there? What made him hate them so badly?

But whatever the answers to these questions may be, he has agreed to leave with you. This is the thought that lingers with you, and by the time you park in front of the convenience store, you have grown giddy enough that there's practically a skip in your step as you head through the doors.

You offer the cashier a jaunty wave as you make a beeline for the aisle where you found the anti-nausea medicine. Unsurprisingly, there's even more options for painkillers than for nausea. Some cheap ones, too, though there aren't many pills included in those. Still, there's enough. This should help.  You grab the box and ignore the expression of mild confusion on the cashier’s face as he rings you up, stuff the negligible change he gives you back into your pocket, and head merrily back to the car.

And with more driving comes more thoughts.

You have Saeran on your side, now… how are you going to go about asking for the RFA’s help? Appeal to their sense of self-preservation? Tell them Mint Eye is just going to keep targeting them until there’s no more Mint Eye?

Saeran hates Seven, and though you don’t think the feeling is exactly mutual, you can’t bank on their history as any sort of leverage.

You could try contacting them now -- open up a chat room, or try sending a text. Might be better to do it now; Saeran might react badly to seeing you do it. But then, if he's traveling with you, he'll find out eventually, so being underhanded won't win you any points with him. Now that he's out of Mint Eye, maybe you can spare the time to talk over a plan with him, see if he's amenable to contacting the RFA for help.

And you might get kicked out of the app once they notice you're there, so you should have a good idea of what you'll say before logging in.. As you think this over, you reach the office’s parking lot and turn into it.

You’re not sure that testing the waters with Saeran about contacting the RFA would be a good idea, but it’s an option. Maybe if you’re _very_ careful, you can discuss it while he’s waiting for his headache to fade, suss out what he's expecting to happen and make a new plan. It’s hard to imagine that he'll jump at the possibility of doing… well, anything you were planning on doing tonight, but maybe -- hold on a minute.

There are lights coming this way. Headlights. You flick off your own headlights as you watch the approaching beams get brighter and brighter, passing the spot you're parked in and turning into the parking lot of the motel.

Goosebumps raise along your skin as you watch the car park by the entrance, not quite in front of the door but just off-center from it.

It… can't be. That’s just some couple looking for some privacy, right? There’s… no way that that’s…

But you can’t seem to believe what you’re telling yourself.

They came from the direction of Mint Eye. There's nothing out that way for miles. If they'd come in from the other direction, maybe you could buy that the car belongs to someone just hoping for some seclusion, but as it is…

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as you watch someone emerge from the car. They're… not wearing robes, but that doesn't rule them out as a disciple. After a moment, someone emerges from the other side, and the pair heads into the motel. You stare after them for a long, long moment, waiting to see if there's anyone else in there, but nothing changes.

So you make a decision.

Your breath catches as you start the car again and pull out of your parking spot, leaving the lights off. You go slow, though you know that probably won't have an effect on how loud the engine is, and glance repeatedly between the road in front of you and the mysterious car as you navigate your own car to a space on the side of the road. It's not particularly secluded, but it should still be hidden by darkness, and you're in a better position to gun it and leave this place behind now.

_God_ , if they’re from Mint Eye, this is so, so bad. Did they -- track you? But _how_? They can’t know that you’re here, parked just across the street; they wouldn’t just let you stay here. But do they know where Saeran is? Unless they’ve got him microchipped, if they’ve managed to track you, wouldn’t it be because of something built into the car, or because they’ve bugged your phone? So why aren’t they heading for _you_?

Unless…

Your next thought is -- unpalatable.

If Saeran checked your phone enough to see where you were heading, there's nothing to say that he didn't try contacting Mint Eye.

Your hands spasm on the wheel, and then you grab for your phone, fumbling to unlock it so you can scroll frantically through your call history, then your texts, ignoring the worried messages you’ve gotten since you dropped off the face of the earth, then -- after some hesitation -- opening up the RFA app and checking your personal messages.

Nothing new. You sag back in relief and close the app.

So -- how did they find you? Are they… tapped into your bank account, able to see the withdrawals you make? Maybe they’ve been using your account to fund their cult shit? Though you did still have enough to rent the room. Maybe they really aren’t with Mint Eye?

But you can’t shake your fear. If it’s Mint Eye, surely they’d come looking for you, right? So if they don’t come back out soon, then… maybe it’s safe. You could wait it out. Wait to see if they come looking for you. But how long is long enough to _know?_ And if it’s them… Saeran is…

You shake your head, trying to clear away that thought. They wouldn't hurt him, if _they_ are even with Mint Eye at all.

And yet -- damn it. You can’t just leave him to fend for himself.

Your hands shake as you unbuckle, and that persistent tremor remains with you as you dart across the street and head for the doors of the motel.

In you creep, fear and adrenaline setting your nerves on fire, making your steps wobble.

The lobby is empty. That's… good, but you've got to keep going, and it looks like you'll have to take the elevator -- there's no stairs in sight. You rake your hand through your hair in frustration when you realize this. Isn’t that a fire hazard? Still, you hit the call button for the elevator -- though you're so tense that you nearly jump out of your skin when the bell dings to signal its arrival.

You step inside, but as you press the button for the second floor, you're beset by another worry. It's… possible that someone's waiting on the other side of the doors for you. You tense at the thought and step back until your heels hit the wall, which doesn't do much more than give you some room to react, but --

The doors open. There's no one there. Even after peering nervously down the hallway, there is no one to be seen.

Relief washes over you. It's fine. They're not out here, they're not down there, and Saeran wouldn't have opened the door for them. They must just have been a couple, and you've worried for nothing. Maybe you'll laugh about it with him later, when your heart’s had a chance to calm down.

You dig around for your key as you approach the door and lift your arm to unlock it, but there's something that makes you pause.

Voices.

Fear floods your senses. _No_. But as much as you wish it wasn't so, you can hear voices. Plural.

You step closer and press your ear to the door.

“--should be back soon--”

You gasp and jolt back, tripping over your feet and falling backwards with a _thud_. The key slips from your hand and skitters across the floor. The voices stop.

_Shit_

You scramble to your feet as footsteps, rapid and heavy, come from the other side of the door, louder and louder, and then there is the click of the lock disengaging.

A shout echoes behind you as you run down the hallway, skidding into the elevator and desperately slamming your palm against the ‘close door’ button.

_Please please please please --_

You squeeze your eyes shut as the doors close slowly, agonizingly slowly, the footsteps growing closer and closer. You keep expecting to see someone come into view, but you only catch a glimpse of a harried-looking face before the doors finally fully close and the elevator begins its descent.

There is a muffled, agitated shout, and then it fades as the distance between you grows. When the doors open, you begin to bolt, but then stop, frozen halfway out of the elevator.

_Saeran._

He's still up there, he's still in the room. You can't --

You can't _do anything._

If you go back, they'll catch you, and then you'll both be lost, but if you can get out of here, you can get help, but it means you have to leave him now, and _god_ , he's going to go back there, and they might --

The elevator doors begin to close. They're coming. You have to go, now. But first, you drag your hand up the panel of buttons, hitting all the floors. No guarantee that'll slow them down -- hell, maybe _they_ actually know where the stairs are -- but it's worth a shot.

You can't get caught. This is the only way you can help him now.

And then you run, back out the doors, back across the street, barely looking where you're going until you are launching yourself into the front seat and fumbling to start the engine. You don't bother with your headlights until the motel’s faded into the distance.

Jesus, how did they _find_ you? Why were they in the room? Did he know it was them? Did he let them in…? Or -- you did tell him to listen for your knock, just in case you lost the key. He couldn't have mistaken them for you, would he?

If you'd been quicker, if you'd slept a little less, talked to him earlier, could you have been out of there before they came? Would you both have been safe right now?

Your fingers clench.

Help. You need help.

...they might shut down your access to the chatroom, now that they know you've escaped. If they can set it up remotely, they may be able to disable it just as easily. Maybe not, but -- the sooner you get in touch with the RFA, the sooner this can be resolved, right? But what to _say?_ And to _whom?_

Just -- burst into a chatroom and hope that whoever's online listens to you? _‘Hi, I know this looks suspicious, but I'm trustworthy, I promise, please believe me!’_

Seven is your best bet. He recognized Saeran, and if he knows _you_ know him, that should give him a reason not to boot you from the server, or… at least startle him long enough for you to type out your plea.

Right. Okay. Better be quick about it. You don't know how long you'll have.

You unlock your phone one-handed and open up the RFA’s messenger, glancing between it and the road.

Messages. Not the general chatroom. He hasn't told anyone who Saeran is. He may recognize you coming directly to him as the courtesy it's intended to be.

_‘i know the hacker that's been targeting you.’_  You type, as quickly as you can -- which isn't very quick at all, given how often you have to direct your eyes back to the road to avoid swerving. ‘ _saeran_ _i can tell you more if you listen to me.’_ And then, ‘ _please don't lock me out. for all our sakes.’_

You turn up the volume on your phone, then set it aside. You're not expecting a reply immediately, though you know it's not rare for him to be awake at these hours. You're going to be ready when he responds -- _if_ he responds. You can only hope he does.

You're going to fix this. Whatever it takes, you'll fix this.

You can't accept any other outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took me two months and it is 29 Got Damn pages long. hopefully, it's a chapter that feels worth the wait. it's been wonderful reading your comments, and it pushed me through the long, long process of writing this chapter. y'all are damn sweet, and i appreciate you.  
> things in my notes get a little bit more nebulous from here on out, where key points are pinned down, but some details are up in the air, and the cast is going to rapidly expand, so that's going to be fun! a little more time-consuming, though, in all likeliness. ....hopefully i'm not gonna disappear for a few months and dump a super long chapter on you again tho.  
> and, a reminder as always that if you ever wanna ask a question about the fic there's always my tumblr, on which i sometimes i post snippets of chapters in [this tag](http://cannibalisticskittles.tumblr.com/tagged/saeran-route-fic-tag).


	12. a chapter of, like, realizing things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick note before you begin: the other mc has been named bc to avoid doing that through the entirety of the fic would get Real Weird, so she has been dubbed misun. also this is abt 52 pages so uh. be warned.

The moment the elevator doors close and your phone is out of view, your anxiety spikes through the roof.

It feels… limiting to give up your phone and the small safety net it offers you, particularly when you've only just gotten it back, but his instructions were clear.

‘ _if you want to talk, leave your phone on the floor of the lobby elevator. I won't have anyone listening in. I'll send down something you can use when I’m done.’_

And you agreed, of course. What else could you do?

Part of you wonders if this may still fall through, in spite of all your fervent hopes, but you suppose you can be reassured by the fact that you've even gotten this far. Seven’s first message, sent just before entering the city limits, was... well, it would be an understatement to call it wary.

‘ _how do you know saeran?_ ’ he had said. ‘ _who are you?’_

You'd only had enough time to type a single response, not enough to answer all his questions -- ‘ _i'll explain everything but this messenger may be monitored, i'm near the apartment, can i explain there?’_

Not an easy request, and he’d made that clear in a string of rapid texts, all variations on the same theme -- where is Saeran now, how did you get access to the messenger and how do you know who Seven is, let alone _where_ he is, and how does he know he can trust you?

At least he seemed _interested_. That made it easier to type out a response. ‘ _i know where you are because saeran knows where you are and told me. he needs your help. will you hear me out?’_

And, after a _long_ pause, he'd told you what to do. No directions to the apartment, you'd noted, though of course he wouldn't give you that -- if you didn't know where it was, you'd have already lied to him.

And now… you just have to wait for him to finish whatever he’s doing with your phone.

You're not sure how long it'll take, actually. He might be a whiz at all things technological, but maybe you should take a seat? Though, if anyone saw you right now, you’d look like you were waiting for the elevator, which might be less noteworthy than if you were just waiting on one of the stiff-looking gray couches.

At that thought, you glance up at where the camera should be, in the corner of the lobby. Odds are, he's watching you right now. Or… Misun is. You can only assume she'll take over on standing watch as needed.

You suppose you can be grateful for those weeks spent in Mint Eye for one thing -- you're barely even phased by the thought of being watched. On the contrary, it's somewhat reassuring; as long as they're watching, you've got their interest, and you still have a chance.

You glance around the lobby, but it's still empty, thankfully. That might not be the case for long, but at least for now, you are alone.

…once you get up to the apartment -- _if_ you get up to the apartment -- maybe you'll stop feeling so _exposed._ Seven poses enough of a threat to them that his presence in conjunction with the apartment’s security system should be enough of a deterrent to Mint Eye that you’ll be able to take them down before they figure out how to get to you -- but the lobby isn’t close enough to him, and you aren’t safe yet.

And then you jolt from your thoughts as the elevator dings softly as the doors open.

In the center of the elevator is a phone -- not yours, but another, a simple little flip phone. This must be for you. You grab it and step back into the lobby.

There's no passcode, obviously, and as you look through it, you see that it's devoid of contacts, texts, photos -- everything. You're not meant to instigate this conversation, apparently.

A moment passes, and then another, and another. You sneak another glance towards the camera. Is there… something you _are_ meant to do? Maybe he's thinking of what to ask you?

And then the phone rings.

You fumble with it in your eagerness, but manage to accept the call before it rings out. Your heart hammers in your chest.

Seven speaks the moment you raise the phone to your ear. “You're going to answer all my questions,” Seven says, voice clear, “and if you can’t convince me that you’re telling the truth, that's it. You won't get a second chance. Is that clear? Don’t think for a second about lying, because if you do…”

You nod desperately, and feel foolish for a moment before remembering that he _can_ still see you from the camera, so it wasn’t an entirely wasted gesture. “Yes,” you say. “Of course.” Despite his stern tone, relief courses through you.

There is a pause, and then, “...how do you know Saeran?”

Right. Not exactly the easiest place to start, but it’s also not surprising that he’d begin there. You draw in a slow breath. “He, um… recruited me. For his cult.”

There’s barely a pause before his next question. “When was this?”

“A couple weeks ago,” you say. “Actually, it’s been around a month now.”

“And... how did he persuade you to join a cult?” Seven asks.

“Oh, he didn’t,” you say.

Suspicion creeps into Seven’s voice. “But you said…”

He trails off, and you answer the question left by the silence. “He recruited me, but not through persuasion. It wasn’t my choice to join. I had no say in the matter.”

“You were _made_ to join?”

“Mmhmm.”

“By him.” You make another affirmative noise, and he asks, “how _exactly_ did he do that?”

“Threats?” you say. “Implied, mostly, none of that ‘come with me _or else_ ’ shtick, he just… didn’t give me any other option. So I went with him and then bam, there I was, in a cult. And once I was there, they weren't too keen on letting me go.”

“Right…” There’s an agitated sigh from his end. “Why? Why -- force anyone into a cult, why you? What’s the point, just to -- expand their numbers?” His voice is soft and troubled, as if he’s wondering aloud.

You huff out a rueful laugh and begin to pace slowly around the lobby. “Why _me_ is a question I can only mostly answer. I was picked because he thought I could help make his plans succeed, but why he thought _that_ , I don’t know. It didn’t end up being true at all; I failed the first step.”

“Which was?”

“Going into the apartment.”

“You were forced into a cult because you didn’t go into this apartment?” His voice is incredulous.

“Hey, I know how it sounds, but it’s not really _that_ strange is it? I mean, the same thing happened to your girlfriend, except _she_ actually made it inside.”

There’s a choked noise from his end. “She’s not--”

And there’s another voice, a hissed, “ _now?_ Really?”

You blink, taken aback, but after a moment, he speaks again, if a little more contrite than he sounded before. “He approached you the same way he approached Misun? Assuming it was him behind that, too.”

You nod. “It was. Like her, I noticed an app on my phone that I hadn’t remembered downloading. Seemed strange, but I tried it out, and… well, it was the RFA’s messenger. When Saeran decided I fit his plan, he put it on my phone. Not that I knew this at the time.”

“But there wasn’t anyone new in the messenger until Misun,” Seven says.

“I didn’t know this at the time, either, but he made a… a bare-bones chatroom to talk to me that only he and I could see. Stripped-down the code to the essentials, I guess. I didn’t question it at the time since I hadn’t seen what the chatrooms were _supposed_ to look like. Saeran -- while pretending to be someone else, a student traveling outside the city -- said he found someone’s phone and it had this app on it. He wanted to get the phone back to the owner, and I was the only person who responded, so he asked if I could do a favor for him. Sound familiar?” you ask.

“It does.” There’s Misun again.

You nod and keep going. “He asked me to go to the address saved in the phone and tell the owner that their phone had been found. I wasn’t fully on board, but I figured I’d be in and out, so I found some directions to the address and ended up here.”

“...listening to a stranger wasn’t wise,” Seven says.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you mutter. “I’ve learned a lot of lessons from this experience and I’ll be thrilled to put these lessons to good use once I’m no longer being chased by a cult.” And then you sigh. “...sorry. You’re right. It's just been a long day.” Long _month_. “Anyway… when I got here, I knocked but no one answered, obviously. And then he said I could probably use a code on the phone to get inside. That’s where our stories seem to diverge.”

You roll your shoulders and then continue. “He got evasive when I disagreed and said he should leave the phone with the police, started talking about how his religion said he should do good deeds and it wasn’t enough to just leave it up to someone else. Breaking and entering didn’t seem like a good deed to me, though, and he was so insistent that I got spooked and I just couldn’t do it, so I… lied. Said there wasn’t a place to put in a code. And then… well, he decided I knew too much to be allowed to leave. He’d been watching me from _very_ nearby, it seems, and when I looked up, there he was.”

“He was here…” Seven’s voice is soft, and it takes a moment before he speaks again. “If the reason you were… brought into this cult is the same reason Misun came here, then you know what that is?”

“Mmhmm. Even though it didn’t go the way he wanted it to, Mint Eye is where I was meant to end up all along, at least according to his plans.”

“Mint Eye?” There is something careful in his tone, his words slow, though the question is simple.

“That’s the name of the cult. Though, sometimes they call it Magenta, or paradise. It’s kind of confusing, see, Mint Eye is like the name of the organization while paradise is a state of being but also a term for the place, while Magenta is--”

He cuts you off. “I get it, thanks,” he says.

You duck your head, a little embarrassed. “Well. That’s what it’s called. But…” You slow your pace as you watch, and shoot a glance up at the camera in the corner. “You knew that already. You’ve been getting those emails. Invitations.”

“Mmh.” He does not offer anything more, but you suppose you should expect that. Why should he volunteer information, even something as simple as saying he knows the name? If you’re telling the truth, then of course you’d know that _he_ knows its name, but he _doesn’t_ know if he can trust you, has no reason to believe that you’re here as a friend.

So you leave it alone. “Anyway… I joined early because of that, but yeah, they want everyone involved with the RFA to join them eventually, my entrance was just a little rushed. And since I arrived early, he had me… help.”

“Help how?” There’s a touch of suspicion in Seven’s voice.

You wince. “Spying, mostly. Keeping an eye on the chatrooms whenever he felt it was necessary to take a peek at it, finding someone to go into the apartment and join the messenger…” You run a hand through your hair, then add, “I don’t, um, know what the grand plan to get everyone to join was. I know it has something to do with this party, but I never quite got that far.”

“You didn’t get that far?” he repeats.

“It seemed like something that was discussed on a need-to-know basis, and Saeran… was the only one who needed to know, besides the savior.”

“The savior?”

“What they call the woman who runs Mint Eye,” you say. “I don't know her real name or anything about her that doesn't involve her role. I'm sorry, I’d tell you if I knew, honest.”

He makes a contemplative noise. Whether he believes you or not, he does not press further. “…when you contacted me, you said Saeran needed my help.” You nod, hoping that he’s watching the camera. “What you’ve been through doesn’t sound pleasant, but what does that have to do with _him_ needing help -- my help?”

You snort. “You really hear all that and think that Mint Eye is a _nice_ place to be, for _anyone_?” There’s a soft, wry laugh from his end. You’ll take that as a ‘no’. “It’s not safe there, not even for him. Every minute he stays there, he’s at risk. But he can’t get out on his own. Honestly, I’m lucky I was able to escape. It got… dicey.”

“How _did_ you escape? If it’s as bad as you say…” Seven trails off.

“Luck?” you say. “Dumb luck and a dangerous sense of overconfidence.”

“Luck.” There is doubt in his voice again.

“It’s…” you sigh. “You have to go through an initiation to officially join Mint Eye,” you say. “I didn’t have mine until -- well, yesterday,” you say. “And initiation involves, ah…” How to put this delicately? “A whole shitload of drugs. And since I was working with Saeran for so long and _he_ was important, I seemed important by association, I think. I’d never really taken advantage of that before, but it suddenly _felt_ like a good idea when I was… affected… and… well, it was a shitty plan, but it worked, mostly.”

The admission comes with no small measure of discomfort, as the events of last night rush in. You shift the phone to your other ear to lessen the growing crick in your neck, as if by assuaging this physical ache you can soothe your mental one. Once done, you open your mouth to explain just how the escape went down.

And then you pause.

Seven knows Saeran somehow, and if the way he sounded when Saeran broke in was any indication -- if his reaction _now_ is any indication -- he cares about Saeran, or he did once. What’s he going to think of your story? Is there anything you can say that won’t make him immediately hang up and snatch away your only chance? Certainly not that you dragged Saeran, semi-conscious, out of Mint Eye, without him _or_ you being seen, without him even noticing until he woke up. It doesn’t matter how true it is; it _radiates_ suspicion.

And what are you going to say about what happened after? That you changed Saeran’s mind? That you didn’t? You haven’t even managed to settle on an answer for yourself, and the thought of putting that doubt into words makes you falter. What do you tell him if he asks how Mint Eye found you? That you just don’t _know?_ He’d blame you.

There’s just too much for him to question, too much to doubt, especially when you are so unfamiliar to him. If he thinks you’re making this up, he won’t listen to anything else you say, and he might let Mint Eye go unchallenged. You can’t risk that.

But as you consider what you might say instead, Seven speaks, unsatisfied with your silence. “Mostly?” he prompts.

“Mostly… oh. Mostly because I nearly got caught,” you say, “so it turned out okay but it very easily could’ve… not.”

You wince at your deception, well-intentioned though it may be. Later, when he trusts you -- _if_ you get that far -- you’ll tell him.

Thankfully, Seven doesn’t seem to notice your moment of remorse. “Hmm,” he says. “How close was your escape?”

“Close enough to see someone chasing after me,” you say, your mind conjuring up the memory of footsteps behind you and that shout echoing down the hall. “Like I said, I was lucky.”

“Alright,” he says, and after a brief pause, he asks, “If Saeran brought you there, why do you want to help him?”

“Does it matter?” you ask. But of course it does. You sigh. “I want to help because there’s been enough damage done, and… enough of Mint Eye making decisions for us. I want to help because… somehow he never seemed to want to cause harm--” _Except to Seven._ “--just help, in that twisted way Mint Eye has.”

You resume your slow circuit around the lobby. “I want to help because I don’t know if he joined them of his own free will or if he was dragged there like I was, but I was only there for a month and I managed to avoid the worst of it and I _still_ wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone. It’s -- I really don’t know if I can emphasize this enough, but it’s _not good_ there, and if my experience is any indication, Mint Eye is probably chock-full of unwilling members.”

“ _Full?_ ” You can sense the incredulity even from here -- and, perhaps, a measure of dismay as well.

You worry your lower lip between your teeth before answering. “There’s… a lot of talking about easing the suffering of others and protecting those who can’t protect themselves. They find people who are in need of their help, and… help. By bringing them there. And then drugging them up to their gills, or threatening them, so they can’t leave and wouldn’t think of disobeying. So yeah, I think it’s safe to assume that I wasn’t the only one unhappy to be there.”

Seven speaks again, softer, muttering to himself. “ _Was_ Saeran brought in by force, or did he join? But he’s recruiting for them... was he picked because--? Ah, but the RFA was picked, too, and Misun, and you. Why was the apartment necessary, does it have something to do with--? But -- _augh_ .” He heaves another frustrated sigh, then says, louder, “you don’t have _any_ idea about how he joined? Whether he chose to or whether he was brought there?”

You shake your head, and your pacing slows. “No. I’ve been trying to figure it out, but I don’t know for certain. He’s said that the savior found him when he was in need and he’s grateful for it, and he’s said that he wants to help bring others into paradise so they won’t have to experience the pain that he once felt. But I don’t know how he joined Mint Eye. I don’t even know how long he’s been there.”

“You have no idea?”

“I can _guess_ ,” you say. “He’s been there long enough that they rely on him -- he’s their expert hacker, the most powerful one there, besides the savior -- and that doesn’t seem like something that happens in a couple of weeks. But other than that, I don’t know. It could be--”

You cut yourself off as someone walks through the front doors, an older woman in a pencil skirt. You plaster a smile onto your face and try to craft an expression of calmness. She barely glances at you, though she does offer a thin smile in return as she heads for the elevator.

Softly, you finish, “It could be anywhere from a few months to a few years, for all I know. And that scares me. The thought of them operating in secret all that time… they’re not going to fall apart by chance. I need help to take them down. _He_ needs help to get out, everyone there needs help, and you’re my best bet.”

And then there is silence.

At last, he says, voice carefully even, “Why should I trust you?”

You run your hand through your hair again. “Honestly? I’d get it if you didn't. This whole thing is nuts. Me coming here puts you in an awkward position, I know, and with everything you’ve been through, I’m sure I don’t seem like a -- a beacon of trust right now.”

“You’re right,” he says, “you don’t. Why did you even come to me? You’ve been -- spying on me, haven’t you? What made you think I’d want to have anything to do with you?”

Irritation meets fear, twisting in your stomach. You’re being -- tested in some way, you have to be, but god, why can’t he see that you’re telling the truth? And what happens if he _doesn’t_?

“I came to you because they seemed to think you were a threat to them, that they were in jeopardy if you found out about them,” you say, “and I was hoping they were right. And… _somehow_ you know him and you seem to care about him and I thought you’d be able to help get him out and keep him safe.”

You’re getting a little too worked up, it seems; the woman by the elevator looks to you, startled. You tilt your head and grin weakly in as much of an apologetic gesture as you can manage. Seven must think so, too, because he is quiet until the elevator doors finally slide open and the woman steps inside, still looking somewhat perturbed.

When he speaks again, there is a hitch in his voice, but still he says, “What you’re saying… makes sense, but how do I know you’re not just here as bait? You don't have -- proof, you don't have anything but your word.”

And you get it, you do.

But the dam bursts.

“Yeah, all I've got is my word, but my word can carry some weight. My _word_ says he put the app on my phone, and there it is. My _word_ tells you how he got me to the apartment, and Misun recognized that tactic, didn’t she? My _word_ says you not only know Saeran, you have some history together, if the way you sounded after he crashed through that window is any proof. It says that that you changed your name to Luciel, that it wasn’t what he used to know you by--”

You think you hear a sharp inhale, but you barrel on. “--that you left him, or he thinks you did and now he hates you, that he wants to hurt you as bad as he feels you hurt him, that you want him to be happy and he _isn't_ and you could _change that_ and--”

And this… doesn't help anything. You squeeze your eyes shut and take in a slow, deep breath. Thank god that the lobby is empty now; less of an audience to your rambling.

You try again, softer. “And… if you still don't trust me enough to believe me, then so be it. I’ll… go to the cops or start ringing up news outlets or… get a megaphone and take to shouting in the streets if that's what it takes to get someone to recognize how dangerous Mine Eye is, because one way or another, this cult is going down, and Saeran and everyone in it are going to be safe.” God, that might not work either, but what else can you do? You can’t accept defeat, that’s for sure. “So thanks for your time, I guess, I’ll see myself out--”

“Don’t.” Quick and sharply spoken.

“...don’t?” When he doesn’t respond immediately, you turn towards the camera, staring into its lens. “Don’t _what_?” Don’t leave? Don’t contact anyone else?” There is another moment of silence, but somehow, after that sudden command, you feel certain that he’s going to answer you eventually.

And then, at last, there’s a sigh. “...I’ll help.”

Your heart leaps. _He’ll help_. “You will? Seriously? That’s--”

He cuts your gushing short. “You remember the floor?”

“I -- yeah, I do, I remember.” You don’t think you’ll ever be able to forget.

“Good. Then… I’ll see you when you come up.” His voice is tired. “Taking down a cult is going to require a lot of work.”

You nod -- of course it will -- and as you do, he hangs up.

For a moment, you just stand there, phone raised to your ear. What was it that won him over? What made him change his mind? Or was he just… testing you, and he didn’t intend for you to leave after all? Maybe you called his bluff when you said you were going to go? Well, you suppose it doesn’t matter, because it _worked_.

You walk back to the elevator on slightly-wobbly steps, overwhelmed by this victory. You can’t stop yourself from smiling as you press the call button. You’re not sure if he trusts you, but he’s willing to see you in person, and more importantly, willing to help get Saeran out.

...would he have let you up sooner if you’d started out by snapping at him? You snort at that thought. No, he’d probably just have hung up on you.

There's a quiet _ding_ , and just as the elevator doors slide open, the phone rings again. You answer it as you step inside and hit the button for the 13th floor.

“...hello?”

“Do you remember the apartment number?” Misun, her voice bright and bubbly.

You nod before you remember that she can no longer see you from the camera in the lobby. “I do, yeah, thank you.”

“Great! I figured I could just wave my arms out the the door so you’d know which one was ours since the elevator’s within sight, _buuuut_ Seven’s a bit on edge right now, so…”

“So it might be best to… not do that.”

“Yep, you get me. We’ll see you in a minute.”

And with a click, the phone is quiet again, and you lower your hand.

Well… at least _someone's_ happy to meet you. You snort at that thought. It's more than you were expecting when you sent that first message.

Your luck really has changed since the last time you were in here -- you’re not out of the woods yet, but you're getting there. And who'd have guessed that after being dragged into a cult that day, you'd be back in this elevator to save your kidnapper? What a change a month makes.

When the doors slide open and you catch sight of the hallway, the familiarity makes your pulse race, but you draw in a deep breath and make your way to the right door. It's fine. It's different now. No one’s waiting for you in secret this time.

That doesn't keep you from experiencing a spike of nervousness as you near the door, though, and your hand stalls in the air moments before knocking. If the elevator reminded you of that day, it shouldn’t be surprising that standing here brings an uncomfortable wave sense of déjà vu.

But you shake your head and try to dispel this feeling. What’s the worst that could happen -- you find out that you don’t get along with them particularly well? That hardly matters now; it’ll just result in some awkwardness. All that really matters is dealing with Mint Eye.

So you raise your hand again, ready to knock -- and then a lock clicks.

You jolt, startled, but of course, they _would_ know you were there, whether because of the camera in the hallway or just looking out the peephole. How terribly rude you must seem, standing outside, just staring -- and after snapping at him, too.

“I’m so sorry,” you say as the door begins to open, “I was just--”

And then the words die on your tongue, halted by the man standing on the other side of the door. Your mind goes completely blank as you, for the first time, get a good look at Luciel Choi.

“Oh, shit,” you breathe.

So this is why Saeran never let you look at Seven’s selfies.

Seven’s features crease as he frowns. “What?” he asks.

“I-I'm sorry,” you repeat numbly, “it's just that you -- you --”

His eyes narrow and his lips twist into an even deeper frown. He looks ready to say something when you whisper, “You look so much like him.”

Oh, the colors are different, vibrant red replacing bleached white, gold instead of mint, less of that sickly pallor and a fair bit more _bulk_ than what you’re used to, but even so, the resemblance is unmistakable.

And Seven looks like the wind has been knocked out of him.

Lips, nose, jawline, even those tired circles beneath his eyes -- it's not _the same_ but it's more like him than you could have ever expected, so _Saeran_ that tears prick at your eyes and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from crying out.

You don't know how long you stay like this, eyes locked on Seven, but at last there is movement from behind him and Misun appears. She places a hand at his elbow to urge him to open the door wider.

“Why don't you come in?” she asks you gently.

Seven blinks down at her slowly, then steps back to allow you entry.

Misun closes and locks the door behind you once you've stepped past the threshold.

“Tea?” she offers.

You don't realize she's talking to you until she looks at you and tilts her head. “Oh… sure.” You haven't given yourself time to think about your thirst, but when you consider how long it's been since you've drank something -- and consider that what you last drank was _elixir_ \-- you probably need something more in your system. Oh, but -- “Ah, don't trouble yourself for me!”

“It's no trouble,” she assures you, then confides, “I need something to do with my hands or else I feel like I’m going to burst. It's been an _interesting_ few days.”

Interesting is an understatement. “Well… thank you then.”

“You can sit down, if you’d like,” she offers, then inclines her head to indicate behind you.

So, you plod over to the couch and sink onto the cushions, and she heads into the kitchen.

The apartment is smaller than you'd built it up to be in your mind. Cozy. It seems at once both familiar and unfamiliar. The reason for that is no mystery, though; you may not have stepped inside it before today, but you've caught glimpses from the camera. And…

“I see you’ve fixed the window,” you note.

Misun’s voice floats out from the kitchen. “It would be terribly drafty if we hadn’t!”

“Oh, I’d imagine so,” you say. “...sorry about that, by the way. I kind of… had a hand in that.” A hand in _all_ of this.

“Is that so? Well, don't worry too much about it. Now that you're here, I know who to send the repair bill to. Do you think they’ll get my letter to the right place if I just address it to ‘the savior?’”

The curiosity in her question makes you laugh, and the weight of your worries lifts a little.

It’s another moment before you dare to look back at Seven, and when you do, you find him slowly coming back to life.

He runs both hands through his hair and clenches his fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, then looks up.

When you meet his eyes again, your heart lurches. Even after the initial shock has worn off, the resemblance is no less strong.

The words fall from your lips. “Y’know, I’d never been able to pin down how he knew you, but I guess…” you twist your fingers together and give a weak little laugh. “Guess I know now. Unless I’m totally off base and the… similarities… are just a remarkable coincidence?”

This, at last, seems to shake him from his reverie. “No,” he says softly, “it's not a coincidence.”

“So you really are -- twins?” He nods again and you give a short, incredulous laugh. “Well… shit.” No wonder he’s so broken up about all this.

Seven quirks a brow at that, but says nothing, instead making his way to the far corner of the room. He’s claimed that area for himself, by the looks of it. There’s a laptop set atop a jacket, an open bag of chips, a tangled charger cord, a heavy-looking book, and… a smashed up cat toy?

He plucks the laptop from where it had been sitting, opens it, and… just stares at it with a look of frustration. Distracted by what he’s just learned? Can’t really blame him for that. It is a _lot_ to take in.

Still, something nags at you. You’re not sure how open he is to questions right now, but…

“How long has it been since you last saw him?” You don’t think there’s any need to clarify who you mean.

Seven glances up at you. “...years.”

“And… no contact with him since then? Or, not recently, I’d guess, if only because Saeran wasn’t… he didn’t seem to be…” You toy with a stray thread on your shirt from where the hem has frayed and come undone as you try to find the words. “...particularly thrilled to see you the other day.”

His eyes close as if in pain, and you have to look away. “No,” he says, so soft you can barely hear him. “The last time I saw him was the last contact I had with him. ...that was the first time I’d seen him in eight years.” Your eyes widen in surprise and you stare at him. He doesn’t meet your gaze, though, looking instead at the far wall. “But I thought he was… V promised he was… he should have been _safe_.”

“V?” you ask. “That’s… your photographer friend, right, the one with the shades and blue hair?”

Seven’s face twists into a grimace. “I’d hardly call him that,” he mutters.

Really? Huh. You'd assumed they were close. Then again, V doesn't seem to be around much; might be hard to be close to someone who's absent so often, even if they did seem to be on good terms in the chatroom.

“You've known him a while, though?” you ask. It’s an opening to find out something you've been curious about. “Has… Saeran known him that long too? Did he meet V when you did?”

Seven goes rigid as his eyes snap to you.

“Why… do you ask?” His voice sounds -- carefully composed. As if it takes a great deal of effort to stay that way.

Oh, boy. You may have wandered into a minefield here. Still, you say, “He -- Saeran -- talked about both of you in a way that seemed more… personal than the way he talked about the rest of the RFA? And he’d get particularly… impassioned when V came up -- not as much or as often as you, which… makes a lot of sense now, but -- V was there from the beginning, right? But everyone else seems to have been there for about as long, and Saeran just seemed… affected by you and V. _Just_ you and V. So I thought maybe, y’know, he might’ve known V once, before… whatever happened between you, uh, happened.”

Seven is still staring. You fumble to add, “or not! It’s just a guess, and… relationships are complicated and even more complicated when cults and indoctrination are thrown into the mix, so maybe Saeran hates him for some other reason and I’m making connections where there’s nothing! I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened, not by a long shot, and--”

Seven cuts off your rambling. “What did he say about V?”

It takes you a moment to find the wherewithal to answer that question. “He... said that V’s a liar and a traitor and doesn't belong in Mint Eye, and he's only said that about you and V. It's -- he acts like everyone's meant to come to Mint Eye eventually unless they've done something particularly heinous, so…” You shrug helplessly and offer a sheepish smile. “It seemed like there was history there.” And then your smile fades. “...was there?”

His breath catches, and he looks away from you. “...yes.” Your curiosity could eat you alive right now, but you hold your tongue and wait for him to continue. “But it’s complicated and I--” And he heaves an agitated sigh. “Come and have a look at this, and then I’ll… well, come look at this first.”

A reasonable request. You rise from the couch and as you come nearer, Seven asks, “those emails were from Saeran, you said? Invitations to paradise?”

“Mmhmm,” you say. “He was really proud of those. Designed them all himself.”

That gives him pause, but then he shakes his head and asks, “did he send those from where he’s been hiding out? ...it _is_ just the one location?” Seven’s brow furrows at this new worry, but you shake your head.

“There’s just the one. Or at least, they’ve never made mention of another building, and they seem pretty attached to the one I was in as being the glorious _Magenta_. He sent them all from the same room in that same building, yeah.”

“And you drove here,” he confirms, “so it _is_ here, not -- Europe, or anything like that.” You raise your eyebrows at him and he gives you a thin, rueful smile. “He knows what he’s doing. Trying to track his IP led me down a rabbit hole. According to that, he could be anywhere, from within the city to France or Germany.”

“Well, it’s hours away, but it’s definitely not _that_ far,” you say.

Seven nods and hits a few keys, then turns the laptop to face you. "Can you tell me if any of these images look familiar?"  
“I can certainly try,” you say, leaning forward to peer at the screen.

There’s a dozen or so photos, some grainy, some in dazzling high-quality. You begin to look them over, though you’re distracted momentarily when Misun emerges from the kitchen. She offers a bright smile when she sees you’re looking at her, then seats herself on the couch. You continue to look through the pictures.

It’s not until the last photo that you recognize anything. “That one!” you say, pointing to it in your enthusiasm.

You have to give the savior credit; Mint Eye is so well-hidden by the surrounding trees that it’s only the barest hint of garden that tips you off, and an ordinary-looking corner of it, too; no full-blooming orange roses to catch your eye, just morning glories growing up the walls like you might find in any other garden. You might have dismissed it, if not for that long walk you took with the savior, but that day left a rather… vivid impression on you.

With that in mind, you scroll back to look at the previous pictures, though Seven is now craning his neck to see what you’re looking at.

It’s only the last three photos that capture Mint Eye, you think. God, from above, you’d never guess that it was home to a cult, it looks so… nondescript. But yes, there, through the leaves, you can see a of green that’s too bright, tinted too _blue_ to belong to the woods. The top of the front dome, then.

“That’s it?” You nod, and his eyes light up before looking over your shoulder. He opens his mouth, but hesitates, and it's not until he looks back at you that he speaks. “Misun will explain,” he says. “About… what you asked.”

About V? _He’s_ not going to do it? And he’s not going to ask her first?

You narrow your eyes at him and he says, “I thought that one might be right -- or close enough, anyway, these coordinates showed up most frequently when I was trying to find him -- but now that I know, I can delve deeper into the security system, try to find where there might be blind spots between cameras, things like that.”

And you can't exactly insist that he pause that to explain something that's going to be explained to you anyway, so you nod and leave him to it.

He sinks into a sitting position, setting his laptop on his crossed legs and hunching over it.

When you return to the couch, Misun offers you a cup of tea. “Might be a little cold now,” she says.

You accept it gratefully. “I’d be an ass if I complained about that after you took the time to make it for me,” you say, and take a sip.

“Hey, after everything you've been through? You deserve something nice.”

Her words bring a pang of guilt. “This week hasn't exactly been all sunshine and roses for you, either,” you say. “A bomb threat, someone crashing through your window trying to kidnap you…”

But she wags a finger like a schoolteacher, a wry grin on her face. “Oh, no, don't downplay what you've been through for _my_ sake. I’ve experienced some odd things these past few days, I won't deny that, but I was only _nearly_ kidnapped, so from where I’m standing, things have been going rather well.” She takes a sip of her own tea, then says, “now, Seven said something about explaining?”

She pauses as her phone pings, and then again, and then again.

“Well, aren't you popular?” you remark.

She laughs and checks her phone. “It's Jaehee and Yoosung,” she says, composing a quick message before setting her phone beside her. “For the past few hours, everyone's been reeling at the news that Seven has a brother, and… trying to figure out how to feel about V.”

You blink in surprise. “Everyone knows now? About Saeran?”

Misun nods. “Seven thought it was important for them to know since he's planning on finding him, and since…” Her smile fades as her expression becomes regretful. “...V seems to be involved.”

“With Saeran?”

She nods again.

You hesitate, glancing over to Seven, but he seems absorbed in his work. And he _did_ ask her to explain. Still, you lower your voice. “What's V’s deal, what did he do? Does it have something to do with -- their history?” Not the most tactful way to ask, admittedly, but you’re eager to understand more of Saeran’s past.

Misun’s lips pull up in a faint smile at your enthusiasm. “Yes,” she says. “It does.” She draws in a deep breath, as if about to speak, then releases it without a word and shakes her head. “Forgive me,” she murmurs. “It’s all rather new to me still, and figuring out where to begin is… tricky. Particularly when it's so personal.”

You draw your legs up onto the couch and settle in, waiting.

Finally, she begins, “Seven and Saeran were… brought up in less-than-ideal circumstances. They had to separate because of family issues years ago, when they were young.” You sit up straighter at that, but she shakes her head. Not a topic to get into. “V... helped him join an intelligence agency--” And then she pauses, her brow furrowing. “Do you--?”

“I know a little about that,” you say. “That he's in an agency, anyway. The details are foggy, but… it’s some cinema-level shit, yeah?”

“Seems like it sometimes,” she murmurs, sending a long look in Seven’s direction. As she watches him, her expression turns wistful. That… seems to be a rather meaningful look, and not an entirely happy one.

Huh. Strange. They were getting along like a house on fire the last you saw of them. Then again, the last time you checked the messenger, V was fine in Seven’s book, and hardly anyone knew about Saeran, so a lot has already changed. Should you… ask? Ask her if something happened between them, if something changed?

...no. God, you can’t think of them like you know them. Everything you think you know, you learned from spying on them. You shouldn’t have any insight into their relationship, shouldn't even be aware of it in the first place. They certainly didn't intend for you, a stranger, to read their private conversations.

So you fold your hands in your lap, and after a moment, Misun comes back to herself.

“Mmh, sorry,” she says. “Where was I? ...the agency, right. So. The agency could get Seven out of those family issues, but didn't allow him to _have_ family, so… he and Saeran had to part. V promised to look after Saeran. To take good care of him.”

“And then Saeran comes crashing into the apartment, trying to talk you into following him to paradise,” you say slowly, “and you find out he’s the one that’s been messing with the security system and sending ominous emails and it starts to seem like he hasn't been very protected at all.”

“Mm _hmm_.”

“So V… shirked his responsibilities and failed to protect Saeran, and that's how Saeran ended up in Mint Eye?”

She winces. “...negligence is the best case scenario. Given how strangely he reacted when Seven brought up Mint Eye, it's possible that he… knows something about it.”

“Knows something?” You ask. “Like he knew that it existed or knew that Saeran was there?”

“The first one. The latter option is… well, we’re -- I’m -- hopeful that V was as in the dark about Saeran as Seven was. But even if he was, it… doesn’t look good for him.”

“No kidding,” you say. “Was Saeran… supposed to _be_ somewhere? Was he meant to have an agency like Seven did, or…” You wave a hand as you try to figure out what you’re trying to say. “I don’t know, something like that?

“Seven says it was dangerous to know anything about Saeran after they separated, so I don't think he knows, and _I_ definitely don't know.” There’s an apologetic note to her voice.

“Mmn. I wonder, did V have an active role in Saeran’s life or was it more of a hands-off, get-him-a-place-to-stay-then-dip-out scenario?” you say. “V keeps in contact with Seven -- they’re both in the RFA, and even if he’s often absent, he still drops in enough that _I_ saw him sometimes, when I was helping Saeran monitor the messenger. So wouldn’t it be just as likely that he was involved with Saeran? How did he not know Saeran was -- gone from where he should’ve been, and why didn’t he say anything? How long--?”

You jolt as you're cut off by the sound of your name, harshly spoken. You look over -- and find yourself on the receiving end of Seven’s gaze.

He’s stony-faced, but… agitated. Tense as a rubber band pulled taut, shoulders hunched and stiff.

Guilt floods through you. You're not exactly an unaffected party in this mess, but right now you really are an outsider looking in.

It may be all well and good for _you_ to speculate about V -- you never knew him personally and you learned so little about him before today that there's no preconceived image of him for this new knowledge to shatter. But in the span of a few days, Seven’s had to deal with the revelation that someone he trusted for -- well, around a decade, it sounds like -- lied to him and put his brother in danger, at the _very_ least. And here you are, chattering away about it without even considering whether Seven could hear you, rubbing salt into the open wound.

_Smooth._

Misun has fallen silent beside you, and another flash of guilt hits you at the thought that you've made her party to the conversation that caused this awkwardness. You grimace, then realize how that might look and try to smooth over your expression.

Whether because of the trainwreck of a smile on your face or not, Seven averts his eyes and sags a little, intensity dimming as he brings up a hand to scratch at the back of his head. “...how much of Mint Eye did you see?” he asks, words slightly hushed.

It takes you a moment to process his question, still stuck on the thought of how stupid you've been. “--how much of the building?”

He rakes a hand roughly through his hair and nods, still looking away.

“A decent amount. Of the lower levels, anyway. I know there's a top floor I haven't seen and I think that's where the savior’s room is. There's also a... basement that I’ve only caught glimpses of.” Though ‘basement’ doesn't quite seem to capture the ominous feeling you got from the stairs flanking the throne, leading down to somewhere dark and unknown.

He nods again and finally looks back at you. “Think you could map it out for me?”

You blink. “What, like… draw it?”

“Yeah.”

“I… guess so? I don't know how accurate it'll be, I mean, there are plenty of rooms I didn't see much of, so it might not be -- it could have some inaccuracies, or--” You fumble as you backtrack, not wanting to give a false impression of how much you know.

But he shakes his head. “Anything you can give me is more than I have now, because I’ve got nothing but some awkwardly-angled shots of the exterior. Unless you think it would have enough inaccuracies that it'd be better to go in without it?”

You shake your head. “No, I… I can definitely map out the general shape of it, at least. I'll be… cautious with the details.”

Misun shifts at your side. “Paper,” she murmurs, brow furrowing. “Now where would that be…? I know I saw some index cards somewhere, but would that be big enough…?” She stands and wanders over to the desk against the far wall, apparently the first to recognize that you'll actually need supplies to get this done.

You make as if to rise, then sink back down into the cushion almost as soon as you do. It's… not your apartment, and maybe she wouldn't be comfortable with you rummaging around in the drawers. Leaving her to look on her own might be less rude if the other option is snooping through her things. She’d ask if she needs help, right?

Or she might be too polite to ask, and you just seem terribly rude.

You twist your fingers together and try to clear away this worry, turning to Seven. “So… the map’s for planning a jailbreak, yeah?”

He angles his head, considering your question. “Eventually, yes,” he says, “but that won't hinge solely on you mapping it out perfectly. I’m certain I can take control of the cameras there and see it for myself, but the more time I spend looking through them, the more likely it is that I’ll be noticed.”

“Yeah, can't imagine they'd be pleased if they noticed the cameras acting weird,” you say.

He nods. “So I need to make the most of the time I have. Knowing the layout, even if it's rough, will help me make sense of what I’m looking at, and with luck, I'll be done before anyone notices and tries to counter me.”

“I’ll do my best, then.” You say. The somber declaration is ruined when you startle as a pen lands on the seat next to you. You look up to see Misun heading towards you with papers in her hand, and a faint but mischievous smile on her face.

You pick up the pen. It's… cutesy, decorated with little cake slices, with a plastic donut dangling from the end. You get the feeling this wasn't here before she settled in.

She sits beside you and hands you the paper she was holding. “Printer hasn't been used in a while, but there's a few dusty sheets from when it was,” she says.

You smile at her in thanks, then uncap the pen and stare down at the first page. This… won't be the most elegant map, but if you focus on what you remember, it should be _somewhat_ useful. Now where to start? Maybe with the pathway to the garage…

As you begin to sketch, Seven speaks up.

“I also need to find out where, if anywhere, there are blind spots between cameras, see if there's a path to take to not be seen,” he says. “You wouldn't happen to know where those are?”

“A few of them, yeah,” you say. “I can mark the location of the cameras I know on the map.” Or at least, mark where they _should_ be, given what you saw occasionally on the feeds in Saeran’s workroom. “There may be more I don't know of, but…”

“Whatever you can remember,” he says, so you carry on.

You realize a little too late that starting with the garage means you've crowded out the rest of Mint Eye -- not enough to be wholly inaccurate, but enough that you'd struggle to fit in each room. Rather than scrap it, you outline the walls of the building and leave the interior blank, trying instead to piece together a complete picture of the sprawling, maze-like garden.

It's probably not worth spending too much time on, but it might help to have a general idea of the scale of it. Seven _did_ see a corner of it from whatever camera he looked through, after all. Besides, on the off chance that scaling the latticed walls of the garden end up being a viable plan of entry -- it’s certainly better than trying to sneak in through the guarded doors leading to the garage -- the winding pathways would be easier to navigate with a guide. With that in mind, you're almost grateful for the time you spent walking with the savior there.

When you finish with that and set aside the paper in favor of a new sheet, Misun scoots closer to peer at what you've drawn. She angles her head as she takes in the details, then looks to you and asks, “do you mind?” You shake your head, so she remains there, content to watch Mint Eye come into view through the careful movements of your pen.

Terror, you find, has done wonders for your memory; you have less trouble filling in the space around the throne room than you expected, as memories of creeping past the side doors and of running to the kitchen after hearing the savior’s footsteps remind you of how everything is positioned.

It becomes even easier when you get to Saeran’s workroom. You've been in and out of the area so many times, you barely have to think about it to recall each twist and turn. You don't have to second guess your accuracy until you get to the stairs leading up to the fancier rooms.

Before you do anything more than put down the basic outline of the floor, though, your pen slows.

“...what's the plan, anyway?” you ask. “Figure out the layout and the blind spots in the security and -- gather a strike team, or… something?” It sounds a little silly now that you're saying it out loud, but something so dramatic _does_ seem to be required here.

As you begin to fill in the sketch, Seven responds. “Not exactly,” he says. “I'm going in on my own.”

Your pen stills again, poised above the page. “You’re going to go there? Personally?”

When you look up, he nods, though he's still focused on whatever's on his laptop screen.

Huh. You can't imagine him taking down the entirety of Mint Eye _that_ easily, so… “To get Saeran first?” you ask. “Or to mess with their security system to make it easier to mount a rescue, or…?”

He glances up from his monitor, but when he meets your eyes, he just nods again. Not the clearest answer, but he does have a pretty good reason to be preoccupied.

Getting Saeran out and taking out their cameras and alarms doesn't seem like enough to defang Mint Eye entirely, but it might be a hell of a lot easier to take them down and free everyone else once he's not there to maintain the security system. If you have to rescue Saeran and then surprise the savior, enough that she won’t have devised some kind of countermeasure to whatever Seven’s planning, you'll have to accomplish both those things in rapid succession, but it could work; hit them while they're scrambling to cover for their missing hacker.

You finish drawing in where ‘your’ room on the map is, and ask, “Alright, so who’s going with you, who’s your backup? You know agency people that can help?”

He doesn't even look up this time. “I don't need backup.”

“You don't --” And then it hits you. “Wait, you seriously meant that you intend to sneak into Mint Eye _alone?_ ”

“You shouldn't be caught up in this more than you already are,” he says. “That goes for both of you.”

Say fucking _what?_

Your thoughts of carefully-made plans shatter at this new declaration, unable to mesh with the image of Seven sneaking into Magenta all by his lonesome and somehow managing to get out again, _with_ Saeran.

“Now hold on just a minute--” You half-rise in your indignation. “Me not being involved directly in the rescue? I get that. I don't have whatever agent experience you have. But you're not going with _anyone?_ What makes you think that would even work -- that I would _let_ that happen--”

His expression is impassable, resolute. “It's too dangerous,” he starts, but you cut him off because the hell it is.

“Everything's dangerous while they're around,” you snap. “You think I was _safe_ while I was in there? You think I’m going to _stay_ safe if they catch you? That they're going to let me go if they catch you, just because I won’t be there when you try sneaking in?”

“It's too dangerous,” he repeats. Even sitting like he is, wedged into the corner with his legs all folded up, he manages to look deathly serious -- and this just makes you angrier.

This time you really do stand, letting the papers slip from your lap and spill to the floor. Sitting now feels too calm, too accepting of this. You tremble with indignation, the back of your knees pressed against the couch, threatening to give out and send you wobbling back onto it.

“What happens to Saeran if you get caught? What happens to everyone _else_ there if you get caught? They're worse off than they would be if you hadn't tried!” Your hands curl into fists, nails digging into your palms.

_“If_ I get caught,” he says, “but I won't be.” He glances away from you and tangles a hand in his hair. “This is -- what I do. What I’m good at. I can get in and out without anyone stopping me because that's what I have had to do, that's my _job_. I won't get caught.”

His words are spoken with an air of finality, and you find yourself wishing that Saeran’s hatred of Seven hadn't prevented you from knowing more about the man -- you don't know how right he is, whether his confidence is misplaced. And the uncertainty bothers you.

“How do you _know_ that?” you demand. “Their security isn’t exactly lax on the best of days, and now that I’ve escaped, they're going to be on high alert. And what about Saeran?”

Your mind leaps to those moments on the roof and the hoarseness in Saeran’s voice as he screamed at Seven, the venom that dripped off his words, and how close he came to being blown to bits just because he didn't want to concede to Seven. “You saw how he reacted to you the day he came here, you _saw_ that. Do you really think there’s anything you can do to make him follow you out? That after all that, he’ll just up and abandon everything he’s believed in for so long and leave Mint Eye, for _you?”_

It took a hell of a lot of persuading for Saeran to decide to give all that up for _you_ , and he doesn’t hate you wholeheartedly like he hates Seven -- and there’s _still_ a chance that you _didn’t_ get through to him.

You stand straighter, determined to make Seven see how risky this plan is, but Seven’s next words cut you off.

“Saeran hates me. Thinks I abandoned him.” His eyes meet yours, and there is pain there. “But I might be able to get him to listen to me. Hear me out long enough to convince him to come with me. I have… something to show him.”

“Like _what?_ ” you cry. “What could possibly change his mind so suddenly, make him stop hating you and listen quick enough that you can still get out of Mint Eye with him without being caught? And even if -- whatever you have can somehow change everything, what’s to say he won’t just sound the alarm when he sees you, before you can show him your proof?” You shake your head. “This is a hell of a lot to bank on an approach that has so much possibility for failure. Why is _this_ the best way to rescue him? Why all this sneaking around?”

Seven opens his mouth to speak, but you barrel on.

“I’m not saying we should warn them that we’re coming, but I’m pretty sure a huge part of why Mint Eye’s been able to become what it is is the fact that they've kept themselves a secret. If we just… took away that secrecy, they wouldn't have any way to guard against that.” You spread your arms out as you plead, trying to get him to understand. “You wouldn’t have to go in alone, and it wouldn’t be so risky.” Or hinge on Saeran having a sudden, unlikely change of heart.

But Seven shakes his head. “We can't. If it wasn't for… something else, then yes, we could storm the place, but disregarding that other factor puts Saeran in even more danger, worse than if Mint Eye _did_ manage to catch me.” Seven’s expression turns pleading. “I -- know I can't ask you to just trust me on this, but we can't bring anyone else in. Not until he's out of there.”

“What other _factor?_ ” Frustration wells up in you. “I’ll -- decide whether I trust your judgment when I know _why_ you think that.

He nods slowly, expression pained. “Someone wants him dead,” he says finally. “If he's mixed up in a cult take-down, they'll hear about it and find him. And I can't let that happen.”

And _that_ knocks the wind right out of your sails. You can't keep yourself from sinking back onto the arm of the couch.

“Someone… wants him dead,” you murmur. Misun lays a hand gently on your shoulder, the weight of it comforting, anchoring.

You look to him, but he shakes his head. “I can’t say who,” he says. “It’s safer that way. No one can connect the dots. But… I know they haven’t given up looking for us.”

“If they don't already know he’s there, couldn’t you… couldn't we… just make sure he’s omitted from whatever news gets out?” you ask.

“We could try,” he says, “but any hint of him that slips through puts him in danger. This person… they're persistent, and they're powerful.” His fingers drum an uneven rhythm on the bottom of his laptop before he continues, “staying out of their reach is why I haven't seen Saeran since we were 14.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth. “Christ.”

His lips pull up in a faint, bitter smile. “I was so focused on keeping him out of that person's reach,” he says. “I didn't think he’d be in danger even when he was hidden from them.” A sigh. “...if I don't do it alone, it's just throwing him from one danger to the next. And I _will_ make sure my brother is safe. Believe me, I wouldn't suggest this plan if I didn't know I could do it. I _can_ get in there and I can get him out, it's… enough like what I've had to do for years. But if that person finds him...” Seven’s face is grim.

“Okay,” you say softly, “okay. Can't let any news of him get out. But… Misun and I already know about him. And the RFA. That's… fine?”

“Telling them was… not done lightly. But they're involved in this and needed to know, and they know how important it is to keep this under wraps. They won't say a word about him. You and Misun…” His eyes dart to her, then away again. “Are another matter. Ideally, no one would know. It's what's safest for him. But you _do_ know about him and I can't change that. I can just hope that you won't say anything about him, now that you know the risks.” His gaze is intense, and you get the feeling that he's going to do more than just _hope_ you'll keep this secret.

“I won’t,” you say. How lucky is it that you came to Seven before anyone else, without knowing how disastrous it would have been otherwise?

After a moment, he speaks up again. “I’m not basing this plan around the assumption that Saeran will listen to me,” he says softly. “I hope he _will_ listen. But getting him to a safe place takes precedence over changing his mind. Once he's out, we can talk, but not if he’s stuck there. If he doesn’t want to come with me, I know that I may have to… force him.”

“Force him,” you repeat. “Like… knocking him out or threatening him or…?”

He nods.

You’re quiet as you consider this, and he says, “I’m not thrilled about it, but--”

You shake your head. “No, I agree. That makes me feel a little better, actually. I mean, the thought of having to do that is awful, but you’re right, it’s better than not having a plan for if he doesn't want to listen. Better than him staying stuck there.”

He lets out a breath, relieved. “So… now you know. Going in alone gives us the highest odds of success,” he says, “all things considered. Maybe that’ll change as I find out more, but… I’ve thought this through. I’ll _keep_ thinking it through. I need this to work just as much as you do.”

“Okay,” you say, “okay. I… understand.” At the very least, you haven’t accounted for some shadowy figure fixated on Saeran in your plans, so you have some… rethinking to do.

He holds your gaze for another moment, as if searching for signs of doubt, and then some of the tenseness leaves him, though he remains remarkably stiff. His eyes return to his laptop, and as they do, you sag.

God, knowing the reasons behind his plan just makes it _worse._ Two sources of danger to guard against, limiting your options to _things that won't get Saeran noticed._ It doesn't leave you with much.

Misun pats your arm gently, offering silent support. You appreciate the gesture, but surreptitiously shrug off her touch a moment later, bending to gather up the papers at your feet.

They've gotten slight folds from falling, but they're just as legible as ever, and there’s honestly not much more to do; just a few more details to fill in on this last page. But… with so much at stake, maybe you should go back and check it over again. It sounds like it’ll be hard enough to pull off this rescue; you can’t accept the possibility of making it any harder with an inaccurate map, even if he _is_ just using it as a reference point.

You look over the last paper you were working on, and sketch out the last of the what you remember. It's still less detailed than the others, but it’s as accurate as you can make it, given how little you saw. What about the others?

You set the paper aside aside to look at the rest of the pages, and Misun picks it up to look at it.

Camera angles… you've marked down the cameras you know, but you can also mark the range on some of these, how far you can see through them, based on the screens in his workroom. Here, and here, along this hallway and set into this corner.

If he’s going to make it in without being seen, he’ll need to have a clear picture of what he'll encounter, particularly when it comes to getting Saeran out. Saeran… isn’t going to be happy to see him.

Unless -- no. He said he understood why Mint Eye was terrible for him, but he never said anything about Seven. Whatever Saeran thinks about Seven, that betrayal, that abandonment Seven thinks he can disprove somehow, it seems separate from Mint Eye. Like it predates the place. So he’ll be… resistant.

Though, if Seven says he’s working with you, maybe Saeran will listen? But... rather than make Seven seem more trustworthy, it may just make you sound like you've turned against Saeran, chosen Seven over him. He’d have to make a decision quickly, wouldn't he, a split-second to choose whether to sound the alarm against Seven or listen? And in that split-second, it may turn him against you.

If he hasn’t already. You _did_ leave him, after all. You let Mint Eye drag him back there.

You tense at this thought and look back at the papers in your lap.

Is this really the best you can do? This -- this mess of pen marks and scrawled notes -- is supposed to help Seven navigate Mint Eye? You frown as you look it over again, but there's nothing left to mark, nothing else that needs changing.

You’re not going with Seven. This shoddy map is the most help you can offer him. How can _this_ be enough to tip the odds of success in your favor? Seven’s going in alone, and if he gets caught, then relying on backup plans means that they'll get hurt, if _that person_ is after them. Saeran is going to _flip_ when he sees Seven, and he might be more resistant because he thinks you’ve betrayed him, and that’s assuming that you got through to him in the first place because it’s possible that he -- that he --

Your fist clenches, and there’s a _snap_ as plastic crunches in your hand, followed by a stinging pain. You jolt and open your hand.

You've managed to break not only the outer casing of Misun’s pen, you’ve cracked the inner tube of ink. It’s seeping out now, rivulets running past where shards of plastic are jabbed into the soft flesh of your palm.

You stare at it numbly, unmoving, until a hand settles onto your wrist.

Misun.

Her eyes are soft when you look up, and her touch is gentle when she reaches for the broken pen, but still you jerk back, clutching your hand protectively to your chest.

“I--”

The fear still thunders through your mind, repeating itself again and again: Saeran might have lied. He might not want to leave at all.

Seven thinks Saeran needs _proof_ to change his mind, and you didn't have that. Was it enough to just offer him _you?_ Could you really have changed his mind so quickly, undone Mint Eye’s damage with just a conversation? Did you even make a dent in his belief? Or does Mint Eye’s programming run too deep?

“I…”

You have no way to explain, and embarrassment claws hotly up your chest as her face takes on a look of concern. Even Seven is looking at you, confused, and -- it’s all too much.

You push the papers towards Misun abruptly. “--please give these to Seven. I have to -- I've got to --”

You cannot finish, and instead bold from the room on unsteady legs.

There is no goal in mind, just _somewhere that’s not here_ , somewhere you won’t feel their eyes on you. You turn into the first room you find and close the door behind you, leaning against it as you catch your breath.

You've picked the bathroom to hide in, it seems. Like the living room, it is small, but cozy. A narrow, high-set window on the far wall lets in enough light to see the pattern of sunflowers on the pushed-aside shower curtain.

The more time passes, the more foolish you feel. Running away, really? If you didn't look like an idiot before, you sure do now.

You almost bury your face in your hands before you remember -- your hand.

Most of the pen has been left behind somewhere between here and the couch, though your hand is deeply ink-stained and there are a few pieces of pen clinging to the sticky substance. You pass your fingers over your palm exploratorily, and find it only aches where your fingers pass. Some of the shards stick to your fingers as you pull away, mired in globs of ink, so there can't be many that are actually _stuck_ there.

...you should probably still take care of those.

So, you ease away from the door and turn on the sink.

You flinch as the water washes over your skin, but it's not so bad, just a slight sting. Now that it’s wet, you run your thumb over your palm, rubbing little circles until the ink bleeds away.

Pen shards fall into the sink with quiet _plinks_ until, one by one, there is nothing left. You raise your hand to peer closer to it, and there _do_ seem to be a few scratches that have broken the skin, but only barely; nothing to really worry about. Now you just need to get the rest of the ink stain off so you don't look like quite as much of a fool.

And then there is a knock at the door.

You freeze, hands still under the water. After a moment, there is another knock, and the sound of your name, called out softly.

“Are you okay in there?” Though muffled, you can recognize Misun’s voice.

You fumble to turn off the water. “Y-yeah, I'm fine!”

“Oh, good! I was worried that you might be… well, that’s good.” And then she’s quiet.

After the silence stretches on for a minute or two, she speaks again. “...hey, don't feel bad about the pen, okay? I got it online in a bundle and they're super cheap -- I mean the price, but also how well they're made, which is… not. Not well. Honestly, I've broken three from that same set! But they're just so cute, I can't help but use them anyway. Really, I should have warned you before I gave it to you.”

That's reassuring in a sense -- at least it wasn't _just_ a fit of anxiety that led to the demise of her pen. But… she's trying to spin it like it's her fault. The guilt of destroying the pen eases a little, only to be replaced by a new, stronger wave of guilt at the way she's taking pains to comfort you.

You lean back against the door. “It's not about the pen,” you say, then huff quietly. “I mean, it is, a little. Making a fool out of myself doesn't feel _great._ Mostly, though, it's just…” And you deflate, sagging against the door. “ _God_ , this sucks.”

There is a quiet laugh from the other side of the door. “Sorry,” she says softly. “I don't mean to make light of the situation.”

“Please do,” you say. “If I can't find some levity soon, I think I’m going to scream. Or… break a few more pens and bolt again,” you add wryly.

“Hey, I think I have a few more squirreled away if it'd help!” she says, cheerful as can be.

All you can manage is a tepid little chuckle in response, your smile soon fading as you scrub your hands over your face. “...you get kidnapped by a cult and watch as they terrorize people in their plans to expand their flock, and you do what you can to minimize the damage even though you can barely slow them down, and then you _finally_ manage to escape and you think cleaning up the mess you helped make and the harm they've done is risky enough already, that the stakes can't possibly get any higher.”

Your fingers clench in your hair. “And then you find out about -- estranged brothers, kept apart to stave off attempted murder? And a secret betrayal that's apparently lasted years, all twisted up in this already fucked up cult business?” Back still pressed against the door, you sink until you're sitting on the floral rug. “I know… I know that if Seven’s right, if Saeran really will be killed if he's seen, then we _have_ to keep that from happening, but I’m just -- I’m _scared_.”

Your grip tightens until it’s painful, but you don't let go. “I’m scared that we won't act in time, that Seven won't be able to make it past their defenses, that he'll be caught and then _we'll_ be caught and it won't matter that Saeran wasn't seen, he'll be stuck there, he’ll get _hurt_ . And -- even if Seven’s right, they'll know we're planning something if Saeran disappears again, and they’re not going to just let that happen. Some of them, maybe even most of them, are brainwashed enough that they'll fight if asked to, and _they_ could get hurt, and I’m so goddamn terrified of what could happen and I can't _do anything._ ”

Helpless again.

“Coming here doesn't seem like nothing to me,” Misun says softly, voice floating through the door and down to you. “Helping find a way through their security system isn’t nothing. Caring about them isn’t nothing.”

You snort. “Fat lot of good caring does when it comes to taking down a cult,” you mutter. “Just makes more worries that won’t be stopped until Mint Eye is gone.”

“Yeah,” she says, even quieter than before, “I get that. Done my fair share of worrying lately, and as much as I’d like to think wishing for the best would solve everything, if wishes were fishes…” She trails off, and sighs softly. When she speaks again, her voice is no longer wistful. “But you’ve done more than wish. You’ve given us a fighting chance. Seven was… well. I know he tries to seem like he’s all prepared now, but I think he was desperate enough to figure out something, _anything_ , that he was about ready to run in there armed with nothing but his laptop.”

You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth, and she is quick to amend, “not literally! But I have never seen a man so _antsy_ before.”

“And he's not now?”

“Compared to before? He's cool as a cucumber now. He’s actually learning more about that creepy cult, and it might not be good news, but I think not being so in the dark is helping him.”

You nod, though you know she can't see you, unsure of what more you can say.

After a moment, she speaks. “I don't know if this is any help, or if it's just going to sound like empty platitudes, but this is… a weird situation to be in. Nobody can take this on all by themselves. You're doing your best; try not to beat yourself up about it.”

_No, but your best may not be good enough. Your best may not be able to save anyone_.

Your hands clench into fists, and then you slowly, carefully, let them relax. “...thank you,” you say. “And… I'll try.” It doesn't do any good to voice these thoughts right now. There's nothing she can change about the situation, only give you more reassurances, and you don't think that's going to help right now. If anything, she may just feel worse when you remain pensive.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Misun asks -- and then there is silence. Evidently, this was not rhetorical.

“...yes?”

“Take a break,” she says. “I… kind of figured that you might need some time when you ran out of the room, so I checked with Seven, and he thinks it'll be a while before he has any urgent questions for you. So… do whatever helps you feel even a little bit better. Rest a while -- or hell, you're already in there, take a bath or a hot shower if it’d help? You've been through a lot, you deserve it.”

“Oh, I don't know, I don't think I can relax right now,” you hedge.

“And that's fair! It may still be worth it to try, but it’s completely understandable if you can’t, given, ah, everything. ...I _do_ have an ulterior motive in bringing it up, to be honest.”

“...yeah?” That’s… interesting.

“Mm _hmm_. Got something to talk to Seven about, some things we need to work out. He’s been avoiding it for too long, but it can't be put off anymore.” Her words are matter-of-fact. “I don't think he'll be willing to listen with… an audience. And I also don't think it'll be the most comfortable conversation to witness, so…”

“So something that gets me out of the room long enough to talk to him would be best for all of us.” Given how strange things have seemed between them, there certainly does seem to be reason to talk, though you wonder what exactly she thinks is long overdue.

“That's what I’m thinking,” she says. “ _But_ , you've been through enough without having to bend to the will of someone you just met--” You have to slap a hand over your mouth to silence the sharp laugh that threatens to burst forth at that. “--so it's a suggestion and nothing more”

‘Bend to her will.’ As if.

“It’s a good suggestion,” you say. “A very reasonable one. I didn't give you much warning before barging in; getting out of your hair for a while is the least I could do. And some time to myself might be… good.”

“Yeah! Rest, relax, and… maybe you'll be able to sort your thoughts out, put some worries to bed and feel better.”

Maybe she's right. It might be easier to compose yourself if you're alone; you wouldn't have to worry so much about controlling your expression as you calm down and try to fight off the thought of Seven’s plan failing.

Though even thinking about _not_ thinking about it brings an immediate spike of panic. It doesn't take much to remind you of all the possibility for harm there is -- Seven getting caught, the malevolent figure he was talking about tracking them down, Mint Eye somehow taking you by surprise and dragging you all to Magenta, and then that persistent fear: that Saeran _was_ lying to you, that he _wanted_ to go back and he won't want to leave --

Misun calls your name questioningly and you jolt.

“Sorry,” you say. “Just… distracted. The last time I had a conversation with someone through a bathroom door, it was…” Perhaps not as sincere as you had thought, you’ve come to realize. “...tense. But -- yeah. Okay. I’ll stay here so you can talk.”

“Thank you.” The relief drips off her words. “Now... I should stop being a terrible hostess and get you an actual towel, huh?”

But you speak up as you stand, uncurling yourself from your hunched position. “It’s okay,” you say, “I can do it.” You might feel embarrassed when you finally face her, but it'll be better if you do it now rather than wait until she's done another favor for you.

Once you're on your feet, you move slowly, still hesitant, but you fight past this to reach for the doorknob and open the door.

Looking at her head-on almost makes you shrink back, but her gaze is kind. You still have to resist the urge to avert your eyes.

“Um,” you say. “If you could direct me to the linen closet...”

“Oh, of course! It’s right down the hall.” She inclines her head to indicate where she means, then starts to walk in that direction.

Once she's lead you about halfway down the hall, she slows to let you pass her and remains at a distance. Just… giving you space?

You try to shrug it off and open the door to the linen closet. Inside is a variety of neatly folded blankets, sheets, and towels, all either white or golden yellow.

Rika really had a theme going here, huh? You suppose that’s to be expected from a woman who headed an organization that planned parties to raise money for charity; her eye for decorating _would_ shine through in her apartment.

“Take whichever you like!” Misun chirps. “Or as many as you like!”

As many? “I… think I’m fine with one, thanks.”

Just as you reach for one of the yellow towels, Misun makes a soft noise. “Oh! Clothes! Do you mind borrowing some of mine?”

“Do _I_ mind? No, but--”

But by the time you pluck the towel from the shelf and turn to look at her, she is already halfway down the hall, darting into a room near the other end.

...huh.

You stand there, waiting, but when she does not return after a moment has passed, you make your way slowly down the hall.

Misun is inside, of course, opening drawers and sifting through the contents. You lean against the doorway and watch her for a minute. Finally, you ask, “what are you doing?”

Her shoulders jerk, as if she hadn't noticed you there. “Ah! I’m picking out some clothes for you. I don't know what you like, so…” She shrugs and starts rummaging again.

“You don't need to do that,” you say, pushing off from the doorframe and taking a step closer to her.

“It's fine! I want you to be comfortable. As long as I've got you here, though, do you have a style that you prefer? Or a type of clothing? Or--?”

“You _really_ don't have to do that.”

“No, no, it's fine!” Her arms are steadily filling up with more and more clothes, and her movements seem… somewhat erratic.

“I don't -- this really is more than I need, you don't need to get this many--” No matter what you say, she does not stop. “Misun wait -- _Misun_ _!_ ”

Something in your voice must startle her, because she looks up at you with wide eyes, a deer in headlights, and stares.

“I…” She looks down at the clothes in her arms. “I…” When she looks up at you again, she smiles, but it looks worn and frayed. She shifts the armful of clothes onto the dresser. “...sorry. It's a little much, isn’t it?” She gives that smile again, but it droops quickly.

“Misun… are you okay? You seem kind of… frazzled,” you say.

She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it. “I. Guess I can't dispute that,” she says finally. She runs her fingers through her hair, then turns away from the dresser to sink onto the bed. She sags as she does, tiredness seeming to overtake her.

“Is something wrong…?” you try.

“You mean besides _everything?_ ” Her voice is rueful. “...you know Seven plans to leave the RFA after he rescues Saeran?”

You blink. “I… did _not_ know that.”

“He does. Said he’ll just cut ties and move on and forget everyone, and we should forget him, too. Like he never meant anything. Like _we_ never meant anything.” There is a decidedly unhappy slant to her lips.

“...you really care about him, don't you.” The words slip out without thinking, soft-spoken though they are. But her response comes before you can retract the statement.

“I love him,” she says, and the certainty in her voice takes your breath away. “And he…” She hesitates. “I don't know for sure that he felt the same way, but I think he does, or he was starting to. And now…” Her hands clench and unclench in her lap. “He’s acting like he doesn't care about anyone. Says it's dangerous for him to stick around. Says we could all get hurt.”

There is another pause, and you wait.

“He’s… really torn up by this, which is understandable, but he's pushing people away and trying to do everything by himself. He refuses to accept that he has people he can rely on. He thinks he’ll hurt them if he stays, but he doesn't seem to see that, like it or not, he's surrounded by people who are willing to take that risk because they -- we -- care about him.”

And then her hands lace together and she meets your eyes without even a shadow of doubt in them. “So I think it’s high time someone talked some sense into him.”

You offer her a smile in support, and she smiles back. “And… how about I get you those clothes I promised, huh? Maybe just one pair this time. _Do_ you have any preferences?”

You shrug. “Anything you're willing to give me is fine--” She frowns and opens her mouth to speak, and you hurry to add, “but maybe lean towards… comfortable?”

Misun nods. “Comfortable. Right. I can do that.” She stands and walks back over to the dresser. “Are sweatpants okay?”

“Sweatpants would be _excellent_.”

This time, it only takes her a moment to gather up an outfit, which she presents to you for your approval once she's got it together. Everything looks like it'll fit you, and there's really no point in being picky here, so you nod, and she sets the folded clothes atop your towel.

“So… anything in the bathroom is fair game,” she says. “Only some of it’s mine, so the rest might be pretty old, but it should be fine. Soap doesn't really… go bad, after all. Could be a little dusty on the outside, but -- yeah, should be fine. If there's anything missing, feel free to holler and I’ll come running. Hmm, anything else?” She taps a finger on her chin.

“Should I be aiming for a _long_ shower?” you ask.

“Y’know, I’m… not really sure,” she admits. “If I’m lucky, he’ll see the error of his ways pretty quick, but he can be pretty stubborn. Try not to worry about it. If we're still talking by the time you come out, then so be it. I can't really banish you to the bathroom the rest of the day just so I can talk to Seven.”

“Well, you _could--_ ”

She shakes her head. “Oh, I wouldn't dare. Take as long as you like, or be as quick as you like. Entirely up to you. And, if it turns out _we_ need anything from you, I’ll just ask questions through the door?”

“Sounds fair,” you agree. Anything that urgent definitely takes precedence over an uninterrupted shower.

She nods decisively, and you step out of the room and make your way back down the hall to the bathroom. Misun follows behind you until you pass the doorway to the living room, where she stops.

You give her a wan smile as you reach the bathroom door, and she begins to turn, but then straightens suddenly and faces you again.

“Oh, right!” She claps her hands together. “Your phone was near death after Seven worked on it, so it’s charging right now. It should have a decent charge by the time you’re done, so if you have any updates to give to friends or loved ones about, uh, being missing, you should be able to ease their worries then. Just… run whatever you’re going to say by Seven first, to make sure it doesn't give away anything important?”

_Oh_ . Of course. You disappeared without a word; it’s only natural that someone would be worried about you. You're going to have to talk to them at some point, aren't you? What are you even going to _say?_

But you push aside the thought. “I won't say a word until I know it’s safe.”

Her face breaks into a dazzling grin, and as she turns away, you see it shift into a look of determination.

You wish her a silent _good luck_ as you turn away and close the door. From what you’ve seen, she may need it.

Though _you_ might need a little luck of your own.

Have you even thought about _anything_ beyond saving Saeran and taking down Mint Eye? About what’s going to happen to you after?

You set the clothes by the sink and hang up the towel.

You can't return to your normal life until the threat of Mint Eye is gone, so on some level, it makes sense that you haven’t given it too much thought, but… you haven't paid rent since you were kidnapped. You didn't ask for a leave of absence from work. You didn't cancel plans or let anyone know you were leaving.

You shrug off your shirt and undo the button of your jeans.

Once this is all taken care of, all resolved, _people_ will understand; being kidnapped by a cult is a rock-solid excuse for getting out of just about anything.

But everything else? Living, working, your _life?_ How much of it is still waiting for you? What do you have to return to?

You shimmy out of your pants and underwear, then step over them to push aside the shower curtain and reach for the faucet. You twist it to the left and water stutters before pouring out.

…are you a bad person if you don't want to talk to anyone right now? Any way you can slice it, having to explain where you've been, what you've been through, is… unappealing. What can you even say? Mention a cult, and someone might go looking for it, which can _not_ be allowed to happen, so… send out a mass text of ‘ _hey, i'm alive and okay but i can't talk right now, don't worry but don't ask any questions until i explain more?_ ’

You step into the shower and let the water wash over you.

Someone _would_ ask questions, and then you’d be caught between ignoring them or lying until Mint Eye is taken care of.

And you _can’t._

You tangle your fingers in your hair, scraping your nails against your scalp until the skin smarts.

Half-knowing is worse than not knowing at all. There's so many more fears that come with it, seeing some of the picture and knowing the rest is being hidden from you. Any explanation you could give right now would lead them further from the truth.

You reach for one of the bottles on the shower rack. Rose shampoo. This will do. You dribble it into your palm, dunk your head under the water again, and spread it through your hair.

But then, what _is_ the truth? You’re not fine, but you're better than you've been in a while, and you _will_ be fine, eventually. Probably. Unless Mint Eye is more resilient that you're prepare for. Or unless Saeran really did lie to you and he’s actually…

You scrub harder.

You can’t even seem to sort out how you feel for your _own_ sake, piece together a narrative that makes sense from what you’ve seen. How can you explain what you've been through to someone who _hasn’t?_

Bubbles drip down your arms, carrying the scent of rose petals as they swirl down the drain.

Seven and Misun know most of what’s going on and even still, you don't think you could make them understand how exactly you feel about the events of this last month. Hell, you couldn’t even bring yourself to tell them that Saeran _might_ want out of there, too afraid of the possibility that he might _not_ , and Seven is his twin, for god’s sake -- if anyone cared about that information as much as you do, it would be him. How could you possibly explain it to someone who _didn’t_ know Saeran?

You scrub and scrub until iridescent bubbles gather between your fingers, in the crooks of your elbows, in all the little dips and crevices they can find.

You’d say… that Saeran kidnapped you and you want him out of there because Mint Eye can't go on without him, because nobody deserves to be stuck in a cult, and… because even if it turns out he wants to stay there, anyone who willingly builds up a cult can't be allowed to _do that_ , and because if he stays there, then --

You really _won’t_ be fine.

Your fingers clench and still and you stand there, motionless, caught by the weight of that realization.

_God_ , you wish this could be simpler. It doesn't even need to be _simple_ , just a _little_ less complicated. Misun is dealing with bombs and secret agencies and a cult _and_ someone she cares about pulling away on top of all that, and she’s still so sure, so certain, after only a _week_. You've had a month and you're still here, trying to figure out why you care so much about your kidnapper -- and knowing that, no matter the answer, you _do_.

You've slowed down again. Better pick up the pace. Misun may need time to talk, but that doesn't mean you should stay in here forever. A quick search reveals a bottle of conditioner that matches the shampoo you used, so you rinse out the last of the suds and begin to work the conditioner into your hair. You'll be a veritable bouquet by the time you’re done.

What would it take to have the conviction Misun has? To say that you -- love him? You almost said as much, back at the motel. And is it _true_? Now that you're away from him and not so caught up in… well, in him, could you say it? Caring about him and wanting him to be safe doesn't mean _love_ , necessarily, and you know he can be a creep sometimes, and he’s terribly handsy, and he takes awful care of himself, and he’d probably work himself to death if he didn't have someone looking out for him, and -- and --

\-- and yet, even with this distance between you, you _are_ caught up in him. Far away though you may be, you are still in his orbit, circling around the thought of him, thoughts of his arms around your waist, the affection in his voice when he murmurs your name, the feel of his smile against your skin as he chases your pulse with his lips, and even now, it feels _safe_ . So… maybe it isn't love. But it sure as hell feels like it. One fear remains, though -- how do you know you'll feel the same when you see him again? When there is no Mint Eye hanging above you? Was it just because you _had_ to be around him that you feel this way? If you'd met him under any other circumstances…

Your fingers slow and still in your hair at this thought.

What about him? What will _he_ think when the dust clears? If he’s still tangled up in Mint Eye’s way of thinking, a happy reunion may be too much to ask for. He might be downright pissed to be torn away from them. What if he resists _un_ tangling himself, clings to them and the ideas they pushed on him?

You try to shake off that thought, and scan the labels on the remaining bottles until you find what you're looking for -- body wash. Not floral this time, but apple-scented, crisp and clean. Though… you neglected to grab a washcloth earlier and it feels rude and a little unsanitary to use Misun’s loofah, so you just squeeze a dollop of soap into your hands and begin to scrub at your arms.

Say Saeran _does_ want to leave Mint Eye. He might still think that you've betrayed him for Seven, or that you left him there at the motel when he needed you. Will he forgive you for that? And if, despite the odds, he _does_ ... what if it’s different? When there’s no more Mint Eye, you won't have to hold your tongue for fear of being punished. If _you_ can change away from Mint Eye, what about him? What about -- how he feels about you?

You dunk your head back under the water, but the warmth does little to soothe you.

What if it was just… proximity that drew him to you? The fact that you were _available?_ Saeran didn't seem to be close to anyone besides the savior; what if he just didn’t have anyone to talk to like that before, anyone to hold? What drew him to you, specifically -- _was_ there anything? Or were you just a convenient way to ease his loneliness? What if he gets out of there and realizes there’s nothing special about you and everything he felt for you was just a reaction to finally getting some semblance of the attention and affection he so desperately needed and it wasn't about _you_ at all? What if he _leaves?_ What if--

Sharp pain brings you back to yourself _._ You've tightened your grip on yourself at some point, and when you let go, there are deep crescents in your skin from your nails. You've managed to unthinkingly hurt yourself, _again_.

But… you rub your thumbs over the skin until the divots seem to smooth over, leaving no sign of punctures, just raised skin and soreness. For a long moment, you stare at the marks -- and then you pluck the bottle of body wash from the shelf, squeeze an obscene amount of soap into your palm, and rub yourself down vigorously, as if you can just wash away your mistakes. The scent of apples is so strong, it’s a little like you're rubbing yourself down with a bundle of granny smiths.

As you scrub, you return to yourself. What are you _doing_ , worrying like this? Look at you -- you've only just started on a path to rescue Saeran and you're already thinking of how tragic the aftermath will be? Give yourself some credit -- or at least, have a little more faith in Seven. He’s probably doing something unimaginably clever out there, finding all sorts of weaknesses in Magenta’s security that'll make it easy as can be to break their defenses wide open.

Besides, even if Saeran doesn’t want to leave now, once he's out and there's some distance between them, that could change. Things… aren’t as bleak as they could be. Sure, Mint Eye isn’t done for _yet_ , but you've got the odds on your side, don’t you? An experienced hacker and _agent_ , a group of people sworn to secrecy who can serve as back-up if things go wrong, first-hand knowledge of the layout, and enough determination to make Mint Eye nervous. Mint Eye is going to collapse, crumble into so fine a dust that they'll never piece it back together. There is no other option.

You duck back under the stream of water and begin to wash the conditioner out of your hair.

So why throw in the towel now? Why resign yourself to pining? He’d seemed intrigued from the moment he met you, and that only increased as the days went by -- even before you'd figured out what he might want from you and perfected your act. _Obviously_ , it was your radiant good looks and winning personality that won him over, not just proximity. Of _course_ he's not going to go chasing after anyone else when he’s free, not when he has _you_ in his sights.

You snort, nearly sending water up your nose as you toss your head back. Alright, maybe there's some middle ground between being sure he’ll lose all interest in you the moment he’s free and placing _yourself_ on a pedestal. It's _got_ to be somewhere in between, right? Figuring out where, exactly, that somewhere is will just be… a learning experience.

And at that thought, you still, fingers wound in your hair.

Huh. Well, it’s… hard to deny the strength of your feelings when the thought of seeing him again and learning what he’s like when he’s not in that cult fills you with so much hope that your chest grows tight.

Trying to name that feeling still seems _dangerous_ , but while there's still room to sort out those feelings, there's no denying they're there, and they're not going away.

And you're going to use them to help him, and everyone else trapped in Mint Eye. The situation could do with a dose of compassion, someone who actually gives a shit about the wellbeing of everyone there, and now you've got that in spades. _You_ give a shit, and _you_ are going to fight like hell to make sure no one else gets hurt.

And… whaddaya know? Misun was right after all; thinking things through really did make you feel better.

Once you go back out there, you may have to answer more questions about Mint Eye, and hearing new details about Seven’s plan may bring up new worries, but for now you can finish rinsing off and just let the water wash over you.

By the time you step out of the shower, you're in a markedly better mood. Definitely _calmer_ than you were before.

When you grab the towel from the rack, you can't help but sigh in contentment. Rika had good taste; these might be the softest towels you've ever felt. You wrap it around yourself and bury your face in fluff. It's like being swaddled by a cloud the color of sunshine. But the air against your bare skin is cold enough to ruin your cocoon of warmth, so you shake yourself from your reverie and dry off.

Once dry, you hang the towel back up and wriggle into the sweatpants Misun gave you, then pull on her shirt -- the latter of which advises the wearer or the viewer to _hang in there, baby!_ You hadn’t realized they made that in shirt form.

You wipe away the steam on the mirror and take a look at yourself.

She estimated well -- it's a comfortable fit. Though you _do_ feel a little… silly. It's probably better than reusing what you'd been wearing, though.

You pick up your discarded clothes to fold them, and this thought is only strengthened by the faint but noticeable smell of dirt and a little bit of elixir -- though that last part might be the work of your imagination. Misun’s clothes are clean, at least. And it's not like she's going to mock you for wearing them when she _owns_ them. Seven… well, you’re a little less sure about him, but at the very least, he seems too preoccupied for something like that.

...oh. Has she had her talk with Seven? You’ve certainly been in here long enough for it to be possible.

You pad over to the door and open it slowly, listening for voices. You don't _hear_ anything… so they're not arguing, at least. Other than that, you have no idea. Well, you'll have to go out there eventually. You’re not going to know either way until you’re closer, so you might as well go now. Besides, if you're careful, you could always sneak back here if it turns out they're still talking.

With that in mind, you give yourself another once-over just to be sure you’re put together, flick off the light, and step out of the bathroom.

As you near the living room, it remains quiet; you hear nothing so much as a whisper. However that conversation went, then, it seems to be over.

When you step into the room, Misun looks up from her phone from her position on the couch and gives you a sunny smile and a friendly little wave. Seven only glances up at you, still sitting crosslegged in the corner, but he gives you a faint, quick smile before turning back to his laptop.

That’s a good sign, right? Your eyes drift back to Misun and she shoots you a thumbs up. _Definitely_ a good sign.

Still, you can’t help but wonder what else may have happened in your absence -- whether Seven knows any more about Mint Eye now. You roll your shoulders awkwardly and ask, “Any progress on the cameras?”

Seven’s mouth slants down. “No. I’ve barely even started on it.”

His unhappiness does not seem aimed at you, but you find yourself frowning as you ease onto the arm of the couch. “Complicated work?”

“It's not that,” he says. “I’d just started to scratch the surface of their security when something else came up, something… important.”

Your frown deepens. “Are they trying to take control of the apartment’s security system again, or get into the messenger, or…?”

He shakes his head. “It's not even _them_ at all. It’s--” A sound like a bell, short but sharp, comes from his laptop, and he looks to it then to Misun.

She nods, and Seven shoots her a grateful smile before focusing full-force on his laptop.

The thought soon fades from your mind as Misun says, “it’s the agency. They don't know where he is now but they're trying to track him down. Shaking them off has proven to be… more difficult than we’d like. And, as you can imagine, being found by something like that wouldn't really help us keep Saeran from being noticed.”

“Wait, but I thought V sent him to them so that they’d protect him from... that person. Aren’t they on your side? Do they just not… know… about Saeran...” You trail off as Misun winces.

Seven snorts without looking up. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he mutters. “That’s what V told _me_. Work for the agency and I’d be safe. But he also said he’d protect Saeran. Now the agency wants me dead and Saeran’s in a cult. Funny how that works, huh?” The bitterness in his voice might be sharper if he wasn't so obviously preoccupied with whatever alerted him, but it is clear nonetheless.

After a moment, he speaks again, slower but with most of the bitterness drained from his voice, still watching the screen. “I've been… multitasking a little,” he says. “Can't divide my attention enough to take care of the agency _and_ start to prod at Mint Eye’s security, but in a few minutes, assuming this goes as planned, we might have some answers. Just need to…” He hunches even farther into himself and the clicking of the keyboard intensifies. “-- _there_.”

And then he hits one last key with an exaggerated flourish and straightens.

“...what'd you do?” you ask.

“Nothing exciting,” he says. “They've revoked my clearance almost everywhere that matters -- _almost_.” A sly grin appears on his face. “They haven't had enough time to do a complete overhaul of everything I had access to before, just quick changes, and I’m intimately familiar with their systems. Doesn't take much guessing to force my way back in. Caused some outages and a lot of redirects.”

Under his breath, he adds, “Actually _erasing_ all the info they've already got is a task that’d take a few more days than we’ve got, but I’ve made it as difficult as I can for them to find me. Anyway, that should keep them off my heels for a few hours, at least. Enough time to figure out Mint Eye’s security… and find out what V is hiding.”

You narrow your eyes, curious but unsure if you should ask. Seven meets your gaze head-on.

“The apartment’s security system is… thorough. The main concern was keeping out anyone not recognized as authorized, as Rika requested, but she also wanted to make sure no one would be able to access the information for the RFA’s parties if they _did_ get in. She was trusted to keep the guests’ personal details safe, and she took that seriously. But…”

He looks away. “When V came into the messenger yesterday, it was the first time I’d been able to get ahold of him since seeing Saeran. I had questions to ask him, things I needed to know. And he--” His jaw tenses. “All he cared about was making sure I didn't go near the drawers. He said it was just -- love letters he didn't want us seeing, but he wouldn't brush off what I said about Saeran for _love letters_. He’s hiding something. Something he desperately doesn't want us to find. And we’re going to find out what.”

He looks back, and his expression softens when his gaze lands on Misun. She nods firmly, and a small, tired smile graces his lips.

“It'll only take a minute to finish disabling this part of the security system,” he says. “Maybe now would be a good time for…?”

Misun straightens abruptly. “Oh, right -- our morale booster!”

“Your _what?”_ you ask.

“You!” she says. You blink at her, and she elaborates, “V made his request to Seven where everyone could see it, so everyone _has_ seen it. They also know that we plan to… disregard it.” She smiles sadly. “There’s a chance for good news and a chance for bad news and everyone’s a little on edge about it. But if we introduce _you_ \-- someone with an inside perspective, someone who can give us an edge -- that'll either soften the blow or double the good news. Plus, we’ll have to tell them about you at _some_ point; it’d be hard for them to help us plan with incomplete information. So… what do you say?”

You blink at her. “I… guess that makes sense?”

“Great! Here, c’mere--” She scoots closer to you, throws an arm around your shoulders, holds up her phone, and beams. “Smile!”

You have just enough time to plaster a semblance of a smile on your face before she takes the picture. A quick _click_ and it’s done. She pulls her phone back and peers at the screen.

You look… uncomfortable. A bit like a deer in headlights, if the panic visible behind your wide eyes is any indication, but Misun makes a pleased sound and says, “cute! Don't you think so?”

“It's, um, fine?”

“Do you not like it? We could take another…”

You shake your head and try to sound more firm. “It’s fine, really.”

“You're sure?” You nod, and she opens the messenger. “Now, how to talk you up…” she muses. Your face must show what you think of _that_ idea, because she laughs. “I’m kidding! I’ll stick to the basics, okay? I’ll just tell them that you’ve come to us in our hour of need bearing the gift of inside knowledge.”

You make another face.

“Not a fan?”

“I mean, it's not… exactly true. I didn't come out of selfless reasons, I came to save my own ass.”

“Maybe,” she says, “but you've _also_ made sure we know how important it is to save everyone in Mint Eye and you _are_ helping us. I can still change what I say, though. What would you prefer?”

“Maybe just…” What would fit with that picture of your awkward grin? “...I guess what you had isn't so bad, just tone it down?”

“Give your name, say you're going to help us get Saeran and keep everyone safe?”

You nod. “That sounds fine.” If a little optimistic.

“Okay then! I'm going to send it now, if you're sure?” You nod again, and she types out her message. “Annnnnnd… sent! A charming selfie and a winning description.” She sets her phone down. “You can introduce yourself in more detail soon; your phone should be decently charged now.”

You pause. “You want me to talk to them?”

“Why not?”

“Well -- I don’t know what I would say, and would anyone would really _want_ to talk to me anyway?” you hedge.

“Are you kidding? You’ll be the talk of the hour. And it’ll probably be less tedious to answer their many, many questions directly -- unless you’d prefer me to act as the middleman?”

“Not exactly, but…” It's more the idea that you'll be interacting with people you helped _stalk_ while masquerading as some hero that bothers you.

“Is it too sudden? Because we can--”

And then Seven speaks. “It’s done.” He draws in a deep breath and sets his laptop against the wall, though he leaves it open. “Ready?”

You nod, and Misun says, “as we'll ever be.”

“Then let’s get some answers.” There is a grim determination in this declaration, but he looks… surprisingly unsure when he stands.

Still, Misun rises from the couch, and you trail along after her as she pads over to the desk.

Once you're both next to him, he draws in another slow breath and hesitates, hand hovering above the drawer. “Ready?” he asks again. But the question seems more appropriate when aimed towards him -- he is stiff as he stares at the drawer, practically radiating nervous energy.

Misun lays her hand over his. “Together,” she suggests.

The rigid line of his shoulders eases a little, and, her hand over his, he grips the handle of the drawer -- and pulls.

You flinch back. It’s almost funny; from how tense he is, you're almost expecting something to spring out at you when he opens the drawer, but it slides open easily. What's inside, however, still makes your breath catch, because there, staring back at you, is the eye you have come to know so well – or at least, something very close to it.

“The logo from the email…” Seven breathes. “But why is it here? Rika was the only one who could come to the apartment. And…”

He pushes the card with the eye aside and pulls out a stack of papers. It only takes him a moment to flip through them and ascertain what they are. “Blueprints?”

Misun leans over to peer at them. “Is that…?”

“Mint Eye,” you whisper.

Misun frowns as she watches Seven rifle through the papers. “These look like… they’re from before it was built,” she says. “There's all these notes about how it should be constructed.”

“But if that's the case, then… Rika would have been involved in the establishment of Mint Eye,” Seven says. “V knew this was here… and he wanted to hide it.”

Misun looks up at Seven. “Luciel… was Rika… part of Mint Eye?”

Seven is already shaking his head. “No. No, the Rika I knew would never… she wouldn't…” And then he hesitates. “But looking at this, I don't think we can deny that she was somehow involved.” His lips twist in frustration. “Damn it, I… I don't know what's going on.” The admission seems to pain him. He looks to you. “You're sure this is for Mint Eye?”

You nod. “I mean, I never saw the basement or the top floor, so I can't speak to the accuracy of those, but the rest of these? There's no doubt about it. It's the same as what I drew -- well, no, mine is shitty in comparison, but otherwise, it all matches.”

Seven nods slowly, already absorbed in looking over more of the documents. “We have to tell them,” he says. “And we have to search the rest of the apartment. There’s no telling what else we might find.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “But telling them comes first. I'm sure they're waiting to hear what we found.”

Seven pulls out his phone and snaps a picture, then collects the contents of the drawer. As he does, you hear him mutter, “I won't leave them in the dark like he did.”

Misun is still holding the blueprints, but she holds them out to you when she sees you looking.

You take them. “Explaining all this seems like something I should leave to you. But I can mark the camera locations on here and label the rooms so you can use these instead of my version. Give you a less messy map.”

Seven is already fiddling with his phone and making his way back to his laptop, presumably to update the rest of the RFA on this discovery, but he tosses a “sure, if you think so,” over his shoulder.

A ringing endorsement. Can't blame him for being distracted, though.

“Not going to be easy to break the news to everyone,” Misun laments. “Ah, but we can give your phone back now! One sec.”

She hurries over to the kitchen and picks up your phone from one of the counters, unplugging it from a charger as she does so, then returns and hands it to you. “Here,” she says. “Seven did… _something_ to your account, but you're still logged into the messenger. Give it a try, feel it out. And… chime in anytime you want.” She gives you a lopsided grin. “Might be seeing some grim reactions after this news, but I'm sure they'll be glad to see you.”

You aren't so sure, but you don't voice this concern.

She hooks an arm around the rolling chair by the desk and begins to head in Seven’s direction, then stops and turns back.

“You'll need another pen if you want to mark the blueprints, huh? There should be one around here somewhere, but… well, I can help you look, but I think we’d better fill everyone in on what we found first.”

You nod. The one you made is messier, but functional; marking the blueprints in the same way may give a slightly clearer map, but if the previous one will do in a pinch, telling the RFA about the drawers takes precedence.

So, you head back to the couch as Misun pulls the chair halfway between you and Seven. You settle in, then turn on your phone.

Opening up the messenger feels… intrusive, though. Maybe you'll wait. See if you get a cue to say something. Or maybe they'll forget and you won't have to introduce yourself after all.

With that in mind, you turn instead to the messages you've gotten while... away.

As you look these over, Seven speaks. “Messenger’s empty,” he murmurs.

“Someone will notice and come online when we start talking,” Misun says. Her voice takes on a mischievous note. “Until then, I wonder if…”

You look up just in time to see her face split into a wide grin as Seven squints at his phone -- and then flushes. Seconds later, a matching grin takes over his face, and he hunches over his phone, fingers flying over the keys. Misun looks pleased, biting her lip as her smile widens even more.

Curiosity rears its head, but you push it down. It's a private moment between them. ...even if they _are_ talking in the messenger.

After a moment, though, there's a soft “oh!” from beside you and then, “Luciel. Jaehee.” From the corner of your eye, you can see him nod, playful expression turning serious.

You'll leave them to their explanations. It's probably easier for Jaehee to hear what they have to say without you interjecting, so you refocus on your own messages.

There’s a pattern to most of these. The earliest messages start out light, friendly, wondering how you've been or why you missed meeting them as planned, which gives way to concern, asking if you're not feeling well, if something important and terribly time-consuming has come up and that’s why they haven’t seen you lately, before finally turning into outright worry.

It's not a rigid pattern, of course. There’s advertisements and announcements thrown in the mix, things you’d expect to get on a daily basis, now piled up. And not everyone is wracked with concern -- there are messages from casual acquaintances you don’t talk to often enough for your silence to be alarming, expressing only shallow curiosity as to where you are, there’s a few irritated texts asking why you haven’t been at work, which devolve into threats about being fired if you don't get back to them, and… you snort as you see that someone asked you to cover their shift two _days_ ago, too wrapped up in their own life to notice that something was amiss with yours.

You're almost tempted to reply to that last one, actually. ‘ _sorry, i’ll have to take a raincheck on that shift. maybe next time?’_

But Misun asked you to run your replies by Seven first, so you'll refrain for now. There are more messages to sort through, anyway. You can think up better responses as you read them.

“Aww.” You look over to Misun, and she lifts her head from her phone and looks your way. “Jaehee said we look cute. Though she's curious about who you are. Maybe now would be a good time to say ‘hi?’”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I can do that.” If it's only Jaehee in the chatroom with them, that takes some of the pressure off you. Of course, it’s possible that others in the RFA are there too and Misun didn't specifically mention them, but in the end, you suppose it doesn't matter. If they both think you should introduce yourself, you can't argue that.

So you switch over to the messenger.

Even the initial loading screen is different. You're still logged in, like she said, but it's… not what you'd seen before. There's way more _stuff_ here; you aren’t just immediately shunted into a stripped down chatroom. You knew it was different, but seeing it firsthand still feels strange.

You can guess where to go from here, though, and soon you've entered into the chatroom -- which has a far brighter background than the one you used to talk with Saeran, weeks ago.

You scroll through the most recent messages, wincing at one exchange particular -- Jaehee’s hopeful ‘ _Please tell me all you found in there was love letters and you left them there and closed the drawer’_ and her shock after Seven posted a picture of the contents of the drawer -- before coming to the last message sent.

And then you pause, fingers stilled above the keys, unsure once more.

Misun is the first one to react to your presence, sending a slew of enthusiastic faces.

Jaehee soon follows suit. It's strange to see her type your name, though of course they would have told her that already.

‘ _that’s me,’_ you send. ‘ _it's nice to meet you, jaehee._ ’

‘ _Likewise,’_ Jaehee types, ‘ _though I’ll admit to being somewhat overwhelmed by all of this.’_

And don’t you know how _that_ feels. ‘ _you know, i’m a little overwhelmed myself,’_ you admit. _‘i think anyone would be. it's… a lot to process. you seem like you're handling it well, though. better than i did. i was… a mess.’_

‘ _Thank you,’_ she says, and what a cute emoji she sends along with it. You haven’t seen any of them up close before, but if it’s anything like reality, she has a very sweet smile. ‘ _Though I only look like I’m not shaken by this.’_

You sort of expect Misun or Seven to chime in here, but it looks like they're giving you some space to talk to her without them.

As you try to think of what to say, another message appears.

_‘I’m interested to know how you became involved in all this.’_

Oh. Well, of course she'd want to know. Telling her is your job, not theirs. But what to say? How to explain?

‘ _it’s a funny story, that_ ,’ you type. ‘ _i've… got some firsthand experience with mint eye. i'd like to use that to help stop them.’_ Should you explain that you've been helping Saeran watch them, mess with them, for weeks? It's not _good_ news, but she has a right to know. _‘i… know saeran from there. i want to help make sure he won't threaten any of you again, and… like seven, i want to help him. make sure he’s safe.’_ Now you just have to figure out how to break the uncomfortable news.

“What…” a murmur from Seven makes you look up from your phone. His gaze alternates from his phone to his laptop. He looks troubled.

A new message catches your eye, makes you turn back to your phone, but… hold on. Jaehee hasn't typed anything new yet. No, the movement that caught your eye is… a box at the top of your screen. A text message.

_From ‘Unknown’._

You don’t even read what else it says before you’re fumbling in your haste to hit the notification, switching over to a one-on-one text.

Wide-eyed and almost trembling, you stare at the screen as it changes, disbelieving, but there’s that blank, beige icon you remember so well, and a message, plain as day:

_‘You look nice.’_

You stare at it, uncomprehending. How -- why --

And as you watch, there comes another. ‘ _I miss you. I wish I could see you, and not just a picture.’_

You unfreeze.

‘ _saeran_ ,’ you type, ‘ _are you okay?’_ then ‘ _are you safe?’_ You hardly even think about what you’re saying, too desperate to say _something_ , to hear his response.

And at last, you do. ‘ _It’s not the same without you here.’_

Misun is speaking, and so is Seven, their voices tinged with notes of confusion, but you pay them little mind. Even when she lays her hand on your arm, you flinch at her touch but stay where you are, hands shaking as you type out question after question, more and more frantic the longer you go without a response from him.

‘ _saeran, please, are you okay, are you safe, do you need help, saeran whats going on’_

And it -- doesn't send.

You stare at the screen and jab _send_ with your thumb. And it still stalls. You hit it again and again, growing more and more aggressive. At some point, Seven must have moved closer, because he puts a hand on your shoulder.

“I don't -- I don't know what it's doing, why isn't it letting me--? Maybe if I…” You hit the back button but everything _stops_ \-- and then dumps you on the log-in screen. “Why is it--?”

Seven says your name, and then again, louder, when you don't respond. You jolt, head jerking towards him. “Was that Saeran?” His voice is firm, but gentle.

“--yes. That was him.” And now he’s gone.

Seven nods slowly, and holds out a hand. “May I?” When you hand your phone over, he tries to log in, only to be met with an error message. He makes a contemplative noise and then focuses on his own phone, in his other hand.

“You’re locked out,” he says. “Let me try...”

He fiddles with it as you watch anxiously, though you have no idea what you're looking at. After a moment, he switches back to your phone and tries to log in. Whatever he did, it worked, because you’re soon met with the sight of the RFA’s messenger, sans error messages. He looks thoughtful.

“I thought he was trying to sabotage the messenger, but all he did was revoke your access,” Seven says. “Clumsily, though. Easy to undo.”

He navigates to your text messages, but…

“They’re gone,” you murmur. Even your own messages to him have been erased.

“But he _did_ send you something?” Seven asks.

You nod, but he looks at you expectantly. “...he said I looked nice. And he misses me. Says it's not the same without me.” Seven narrows his eyes at you, and you shrug helplessly. “Don't ask _me_ why he did it.”

“That's all?”

“That's all.”

“Mmh.” He stares at his phone, and after a moment, he mutters, “it was way too easy for him to get in. Did he really do it just to say he misses you? But then why did he block you? And -- why did he erase his texts, to hide them from me? But he knows you're here, doesn't he, wouldn't he know you might tell me? And he wasn't exactly hard to block…” Frustration is written all over his face. Misun reaches over you to pat his arm comfortingly.

“Has he done something like that before?” you ask. “Restricted access?” Saeran told you a lot of what he did, but he _did_ leave out details sometimes -- though you doubt he would have missed a chance to gloat, even about a victory as small as that. No, this feels… different.

But Seven shakes his head. “Not like this. I've countered larger-scale attacks on the messenger, but he’s never broken through like that.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “ _He_ added you to the server in the first place, so maybe there’s something different there I missed? Or…” He sighs again. “Anyway, no, he's never done that before.”

You nod slowly, the wheels in your head turning. He only restricted _your_ access, only messaged _you_ , and only after you rejoined the messenger. It wasn't an attack on the RFA. It was about you.

“Why would he do that _now_?” Seven murmurs.

“What,” you ask, “contact me or block me?”

“ _Either,_ ” he says. “What was the point in either of those? If he was trying to hurt us, bring us down, that makes sense, but just to -- say he _misses_ you and then make it harder for you to contact him? And erasing everything on top of that…”

“It might be because… he has eyes on him,” you say carefully. “He’d almost certainly know that you'd see what he said, or at least, see that he was in the messenger and sent _something_ , right? But deleting the texts still makes it seem as though he’s hiding them from someone. And… if it's not you he's hiding from him, maybe it’s them.”

Seven frowns. “Is… saying he misses you really so opposed to what they want that he’d need to cover it up? Wouldn’t that make more sense if he’d said something... compromising?”

“Well, slacking off is never exactly encouraged, but he got away with a fair amount because the savior trusts him to get his work done and not do anything too dangerous when he's on his own,” you say. “That... might be different now.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Why?” he asks. “What’s changed?”

And here it is. Your moment of truth.

You draw in a deep breath. “...when I decided to make my escape,” you begin, “I didn't go alone. Saeran came with me.”

Seven’s eyebrows shoot sky-high. “He tried to escape with you?”

You hesitate. “Yes and no,” you say. “He came with me, but he wasn’t, ah… aware of it, initially.” Seven frowns, and you continue. “I told you I was drugged during my initiation, right? It's… kind of complicated, but Saeran ended up also drinking some of the elixir--” You stop short. “Ah. Right. I should clarify. The elixir is how Mint Eye administers the drugs. Having it in liquid form makes it easier I guess. During my initiation, Saeran drank some so it'd be less hard on me.”

“Is he--?”

“He’s okay,” you say. “Couple hours of discomfort, a few more hours of nausea and headaches, but most of the effects seemed to have faded when I… saw him last. There's not supposed to be any lasting damage, according to him, and I guess he would know. He said he’d been through it before. Several times. So he’s got a tolerance for it.”

Seven inhales sharply. “Several--? _Why?_ How does that -- why would he--”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “They use the elixir in initiations, but I have to assume it’s used other times, because why would he have taken it more than once, otherwise? But why, I don’t know. Control, maybe. Or punishment. He didn't say, and I didn’t think I could ask. It was… safer to not ask questions sometimes.” And then you say, softly, “…he didn't even question it. He talked about it like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

You twist your fingers together, remembering, then untwist them and shake your head. “Well. The takeaway from this is he was pretty out of it when I decided to make a break for it, so I grabbed him, told him we were going for a walk, and left. Stole a car and off we went.”

Seven frowns. “How was he unwell enough to not realize you were leaving if you both took the elixir and you were fine?”

“I was far from fine at first,” you say. “Had a couple fitful hours of fever, aches, general… unpleasantness. But mostly, it's because I… distracted him. Used a sleight of hand.” And then you correct yourself. “Slight of… tongue, really. I made it look like I was taking more than I was.” Not technically untrue, but careful enough that you don’t have to tell him you took advantage of his brother’s horniness, if he doesn't ask for more details.

Thankfully, Seven nods. “And something happened.”

“He woke up after we’d been driving for a while. Didn’t feel well. We stopped somewhere so he could rest and recover, a motel along the way. But by the time he felt better, he’d figured out where we were. And he… wasn’t happy. As you might imagine.”

Misun pats your arm gently and when you look to her, she gives you a faint smile.

You return it, but it soon fades. “Saeran was… well, he was mad as hell, but I didn’t want to leave him. Wasn’t right. I didn't come all that way just to toss him by the wayside. So I tried to talk to him, get him to see that leaving was what was best for him. There was… shouting. It got heated. Didn’t think it’d work, to be honest. But…” And you hesitate again. “Eventually he said he understood. Said he’d leave with me.”

“He _did?”_ Seven straightens in his surprise. “But…”

But he’s not here.

“Yeah,” you say. “After the anger faded, he told me he still didn't feel great. Wasn’t up for driving yet. I was antsy, ready to be on the road, so I left to get painkillers from the gas station down the road so he could feel better. I was away for five, maybe ten minutes, but when I got back…” You trail off.

“He was gone?”

You shake your head. “Mint Eye disciples were in the room. I heard them talking. They heard me, too, and one of them came rushing out, tried to grab me. I almost didn’t get away. And then I ran to you, hoping you could help. I… don't know how they found us, I don’t know if he let them in knowing who they were, and I don’t know if… if he wanted to back. If he went with them willingly.”

You scrub your hands over your face. “I left my phone in the bathroom. He holed up in there to process, I think. And he looked at it. Unlocked it and saw where we were. Afterwards, I checked, and I never saw anything that seemed like a message from him to Mint Eye, but he’d know how to cover his tracks. I thought -- I thought I got through to him, but I don’t know.”

There is a moment of silence before Seven asks, “You really thought you changed his mind?”

You wince. “I did.”

“And he listened to you,” Seven says. “Enough to convince you he understood, even if he was lying.” He nods, looking as though he's thinking over what you've said. “Why do you think that is?”

And then he looks at you and his gaze is -- searching. Or… no, not searching. Stronger than that. Not _interrogating_ , exactly, but firm. Determined. You don't feel as if you can avoid answering when that gaze is directed at you. Like he’s going to get to the truth of the matter and all your hesitation can't stop him.

The words fall from your lips. “Because he’d grown attached to me and he didn’t have anybody else.”

Seven’s eyes go wide.

“Saeran is… dedicated to Mint Eye. Or he was, at least,” you say. “Always focused on what the savior told him to do. Didn’t take time for himself, barely stopped to eat. Didn’t sleep much so he could devote more time to his work. He… latched onto me pretty quick. Liked the attention, I think. Seemed like I was more company than he’d had in a long while.”

Seven lets out a slow breath. “Was he kept isolated to make him focus, or did he isolate himself?”

You consider this. “Both, I think,” you say at last. “If he wasn’t given so many responsibilities, he wouldn’t need to be holed up in his workroom all day, every day, but he had opportunities to talk to people, other disciples, while he was working, he just… didn’t. Wasn’t interested.”

“But he did talk to you,” he says, and you nod.

“In the month I was there, we became… close,” you say. “In the grand scheme of things, I wasn't there very long, but…”

You think back to your first day there, how he pulled you into his lap and combed his fingers through your hair, how that grew into the habit of wrapping his arms around your waist and nestling his chin against your shoulder, how content he seemed when he teased you or talked about the good you could do together.

“...even in the beginning, he stayed by my side.” You draw in a slow breath. “I don’t know what made him open up to me, trust me, but he did. And I couldn’t betray that trust by leaving him without at least trying to get through to him.”

Ever since the beginning, Saeran trusted you. You look down at your lap and consider the weight of that.

“...I do wonder sometimes why he picked me,” you murmur. “Why he chose me over everyone he looked at, knowing that if all plans succeeded, I would join Mint Eye with the rest of you. Given how quickly he seemed to take to me, I’ve… wondered if he picked me for him. If he thought I was someone he could share paradise with.”

And if that wasn’t what he thought at first, then he was quick to grow into that mindset.

“So he really did message you because he misses you…?” Seven muses.

“Maybe,” you say. “I… wouldn't put it past him.” He's clingy when you're there with him, and this is the first time you’ve been separated in a month, so it makes sense in a way. Still, to waste precious time on _that_? “But I don’t get why he’d go through all that trouble, especially if he was just going to block me anyway.” A thought strikes you. “Was it… just the quickest way to erase the messages? Boot me from the system, and my messages get deleted along with my account?”

But Seven shakes his head. “He _didn’t_ delete you from the system, just rescinded your access.”

Misun pipes up. “Your conversation with Jaehee is still here.”

“Right,” says Seven. “So it was two separate actions; erasing the messages and kicking you out.”

“Damn,” you mutter. “So we still don’t know exactly why he did it.”

Seven gives you a questioning look. “You said you thought Saeran might have eyes on him,” he says. “That things might be different for him now and he might feel like he needed to hide from them. That’s not reason enough?”

“Oh, no, I still think that,” you say. “but I also think they’re going to be watching him regardless of whether he went back willingly. I was just… I don’t know, hoping we could figure out which one it was based on why he bolted so quickly, but that’d be too easy, huh?” A laugh escapes you, short and soft.

“But… since he was involved in an escape attempt, they’re going to keep a close eye on him now, even if he can convince them he had nothing to do with it. And if he can’t convince them, they’ll… tighten the leash even more. Either way, getting caught fraternizing with the enemy wouldn’t look good for him.”

Seven frowns. “Would he really just be put back to work if they don’t trust him?”

“They might do that, to be honest. He’s… useful to them. Fills a role that no one else there can, and now that you know about him and Mint Eye, they'll need him more than ever. If that wasn’t the case, well…”

Saeran's said so little about _unfaithful disciples_ , preferring to focus on how much better they'll feel after they've been led back to the truth by the savior’s loving guidance, that you don't know much about what happens then, or even where it happens, but it doesn't sound _good_ . If you had to take a guess, you’d put your money on the dungeons, and they wouldn’t let him have access to _anything_ if he was down there.

“Suffice it to say, the fact that he could contact me means he’s got to be back in his workroom,” you say. “I left everything but my phone back at Mint Eye when we left, and they wouldn't let him make a pit stop to get _his_ phone before sending him to the dungeons, if that’s where they wanted him. I think they're desperate enough to fend you off that they're willing to forgo whatever punishments he would normally be getting, if any, until you’re… neutralized.”

“And if… he really did change his mind?” Seven asks. “If he wants to leave now?”

“Then we can only hope he plays along well enough that they don't rethink their generosity.”

“Right…” A sigh. “So do we shore up the messenger’s security to fend off future attacks, or do we leave it as is and hope that he’s aiming to ask for help, not bring the whole thing down? If I don't do anything, he could get back in just as easily as he did now, but if I change it and he wants to reach out…” Seven tangles his fingers in his hair and tugs, looking frustrated.

“...err on the side of caution?” Misun suggests, and Seven looks up at her, studying her face. “The messenger can be rebuilt. And we can manage without it, if it comes to that. But your brother can’t be replaced.” She reaches to lay her hand over his. “Isn't it a risk worth taking?”

Relief floods his face. “Yeah,” he says softly, “alright. We’ll have to tell everyone to be careful with what they say in the messenger, and find a more secure way to discuss any plans involving Mint Eye, but that kind of workaround is easy.”

“I’m sure they'll be willing to go along with whatever you settle on,” Misun says. The tension in his expressions lessens as he aims a shaky smile at her.

And then Seven’s focus shifts to you and the smile fades. “...why didn't you tell me any of this before?” he asks.

You wince. “I should have, I know, I just -- didn't think telling you all about the failed break-out I staged made the strongest case for trusting me. I was afraid it would scare you off. I thought if I had more time I could figure out if he’d been honest with me and then I could give you a clear picture of what happened instead of all this… ambiguity.” You tap your thumbs against your thighs. “Obviously, if I’d been aware of the whole _brothers_ thing, it wouldn't have been such a sticking point.”

A crease between his eyes marrs his face. “Even if you didn’t know for sure, that's a pretty important omission.”

“I--” But you cut yourself off. You had your reasons to think the way you did, but he’s right. Your hands clench, but you nod. “Yeah. It was. I’m sorry.”

“I… understand wanting to be careful,” he says, in a way that suggests he is making an effort to be diplomatic. “But there can’t be anything else you keep from me. I need you to be completely honest with me from here on out. Nothing hidden, nothing kept to yourself. Is there _anything_ else you've left out, for any reason?”

You shake your head firmly. “No. That’s everything, I swear.

“You’re _sure_.”

“I swear,” you repeat. “And if I think of anything else I might have missed, I’ll tell you immediately, but that should really be _everything._

He stares at you for a moment, assessing you, searching for any signs that you’re being less than truthful. “Alright,” he says. “But I mean it. Anything.”

He runs a hand through his hair and stands. “I’m going to keep figuring out Mint Eye’s security.” He looks at Misun and then at you. “Could you check the rest of the apartment for anything else that might be relevant?”

You nod, and Misun does the same.

Seven flashes a quick, grateful smile, then returns to his corner and his laptop.

Misun looks at you. “...I’ll go left, you go right?” she suggests.

“Sure,” you say. “Anything I should avoid?”

Misun shrugs. “ _I_ don't have anything hidden out here. If it looks like it's something personal, just leave it I guess?” The corners of her mouth turn up. “Maybe we’ll find those love letters after all.”

“God forbid,” you mutter, and she laughs.

You switch your phone on as you stand, navigating back to the chatroom. After your abrupt departure, Jaehee sent a few concerned messages, which are followed by a brief explanation from Misun -- _‘srry, smthing came up, but everything’s good._ ’

Jaehee is no longer online but you type out a quick apology anyway before turning your phone off and slipping it in the pocket of your sweatpants.

Now, where to start… the farthest edge makes sense, you suppose. You can work your way inward. Meet Misun in the middle.

So you make your way over to the rightmost cabinet. There are… a _ton_ of drawers. Were these really all hooked up to the security system? But as you search, you begin to doubt that. There’s no mechanisms inside, nothing that could be triggered when you pull the handles. You suppose that's why Seven went for the other drawers first. Still, you'll check them just as he asked. You may find something yet.

One by one, you open them and sort through their contents. It's mostly papers, you find -- not love letters, but nothing that screams Mint Eye. Lots of contact information for what you assume is resources for the parties, given the names. Many of the drawers are empty, and soon you've checked the entirety of the cabinet.

You move on to the end table beside it. This has only one drawer, though, and it's quickly evident that there's nothing to look at here, save for a pen, which you pocket for later.

“Find anything?” you call out.

“Not yet,” Misun says.

When you turn back, she's standing by the desk, a pile of papers in her hands. You wander over to her as she says, “nothing so damning as that calling card, anyway. Jury’s out on the rest of these documents.”

“Mind if I help?” you ask.

“Knock yourself out,” she says, setting one of the papers on the desk. “Only a couple left, though.”

“Less work? What's there to complain about?”

She chuckles as you open up the remaining drawers, but it fades quickly, too focused on reading what's in front of her. You fall into the same pattern, but it's more of what you found in the cabinet. More expense records than before, but otherwise the same.

“Organized, wasn't she?” you remark, then glance up to meet Misun’s eyes as you clarify, “Rika, I mean.”

“Seems like it,” Misun agrees. “Gotta be, to run a charity organization, right? Just wish I was more familiar with these things so sorting could go a little quicker.” There's a pause, and then, “It's… good that we're not finding anything else, right?”

“Not finding cult shit?” you ask. “It’s not particularly helpful in terms of figuring out more about Mint Eye, but yeah, it's much better in terms of not further implicating one or both of the founding members of the RFA in said cult.” Expense report, reference sheet, expense report. “...it _was_ just the two of them that started it, right? I'm told Jumin is an old friend of V’s; did he help found it too, or was he just an early addition?”

“Pretty sure you got it right the first time,” she says. Good to know.

You keep sorting. Reference, reference, reference… god, this woman was well-connected, wasn't she?

Your marveling is cut short as Misun lets out a soft, pained ‘ _ohh.’_

You look up. “...what?”

“Oh, sorry, it's nothing much, just…” Her expression is wistful as she stares down at something in her hands. “They looked so happy here. Carefree.”

She stares another moment and then raises her head. You must look curious, because she plucks what you can now tell is a photograph from the top of her pile. “See?” she asks, and then she flips it.

You have just enough time to begin leaning closer when you see what's on the other side and you freeze, the hand half-raised to reach for it stalling in the air, fingers twitching.

Whatever you were about to say is reduced to a whimper, escaping your throat with a sad little squeak.

Misun’s expression shifts to one of alarm. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“That's the savior,” you whisper. “In the -- in the picture.” Fear washes over you and settles low in your stomach. She can't be watching you, she _can't,_ but looking at the photo makes that impossibility seem like nothing more than a lie you tell yourself to feel better about the boogeyman lurking under your bed, except this one’s _real_.

Misun’s eyes widen. “ _V?_ ”

You shake your head mindlessly as your feet carry you backwards, away from the photo. “No -- _her_.”

“Rika?” Misun’s voice is too muddled with confusion for her shock to be as sharp this time. From behind you comes the sharp _click_ of a laptop shutting. “But she’s… dead.”

“No,” you say, “no, it's her.” It's her, here, where you should have been safe from her.

You take another faltering step back and startle as you bump into something -- Seven, you find, as your head jerks back to look at him. His hands fly up to catch you, holding you just below your shoulders.

“Calm down,” he says firmly. “Misun is right, Rika’s been dead for years. It’s just a resemblance.”

But you shake your head, resolute, the image of the savior smiling serenely, leaning into an equally-content V still burned into your mind.

“It looks like her because it _is_ her. I know it. It's not a resemblance, it’s _her_ .” You twist to turn pleading eyes on Seven. You've never seen her _smile_ like that, but you know it's her all the same.

“You've seen her picture before?” His voice is gentler now -- infuriatingly indulgent. Like you're a child.

“I've seen _her!_ ”Your breath grows ragged. “Not a picture, but her, in the flesh, with her hair like -- like --” Your hands make fluttering, spiraling motions from the top of your head to your sides as if you can capture the way her hair floats around her like an aura, a halo. “--all billowing out, and she’s -- she’s fucking short but that doesn't stop her from being terrifying, and--!” Eyes as clear as glass, sharp and vivid, radiating unquestionable authority. “I’ve _seen her!_ ”

He doesn't seem _indulgent_ now. “You can't have.” But his voice falters, unsure. He searches your face, and his own crumples. “How is that possible, V said she--” And all at once, his expression hardens. “V said,” he breathes.” Like a revelation. He grips your arms tighter. “You're sure? You’re _absolutely_ sure?”

You nod frantically. “As sure as I’ve ever been, I swear.” You glance between them, desperate for some sign that they believe you.

Seven’s eyes are fixed on yours, too stunned by the implications of what you have placed before him to move an inch, and from the look on Misun’s face, she has no idea what to think, but you -- you know what you saw. There’s no mistaking it.

The woman in that picture is the same woman who led you through the gardens, who pet your hair and bid you goodnight just hours ago, the woman who runs Mint Eye, the source of your fear.

Having a name to put to the face cannot change what you know. She is flesh and blood and fearsome power and she is _not_ dead, not even close.

And yet you flinch as you meet the eyes of the photo now hanging limply from Misun’s fingers, shoulders jerking up as if to shield yourself from a gaze that cannot see you.

Alive though she may be, it seems she has the power to haunt you all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all, i have been all sorts of nervous about this chapter. for one thing, it took me three months. three goddamn months. and then it ended up more than 50 pages which is Fucking Long and it doesn't even have much saeran. the next chapter will be... i dunno, shorter, i presume? summer break just hit and i don't work till it's over, so hopefully that means More Saeran Soon.


End file.
